


Sparkcracker Act I: Waltz Of The Snowflakes

by Nitrobot



Series: The Sparkcracker Suite [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Beast Machines, Transformers: Beast Wars
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Nutcracker Fusion, Body Horror, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, F/M, Genocide, Politics, Slow Burn, Space racism (spacism), Unethical Experimentation, Worldbuilding, implied sexual violence, like very slow burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:15:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 53,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21616693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nitrobot/pseuds/Nitrobot
Summary: Five hundred years ago, Cybertron went through a civil war. The Prince of Vos, and all other royalty, disappeared; replaced by a new government headed by someone calling himself Rattrap.One day ago, Cityspeaker Windblade received a warning from her Titan Metroplex; about an emergency, and a rat. She finds out firsthand what became of her ancestral home, and the lost prince who no-one even seems to remember.
Relationships: Starscream/Windblade (Transformers)
Series: The Sparkcracker Suite [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1568893
Comments: 28
Kudos: 44





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is gonna be a weird story, the kind that I'm known for. If you're familiar with the story of the Nutcracker then some things will at least make sense, but if you're confused by anything I'll do my best to explain in comments (for instance, this version of Rattrap is very OOC. This is intentional).  
> Since this is technically a Christmas story I'll be posting all 12 parts of Act I throughout December, staring with this prologue for the 1st.

Despite its long history coiled throughout the cosmos, its scattered colonies clung onto the side of their galaxies like parasites, its famously ancient natives and their infamous penchant for destruction, Cybertron had not changed much in the past billion years. It could rarely afford to.

And then, just in the space of five hundred years, barely a blink in the optic of a Cybertronian, everything had changed. A complete planetary overhaul, one that would have made most factory worlds glow green with envy as well as industrial radiation. But only because they couldn't see the surface of the planet, the effects of such a change. Cybertron was an island surrounded by sharks, cordoned and blocked off and restricted in every possible way. No one could enter, no one could leave, and no one had managed either in those last, long centuries.

Even if someone slipped through the defenses, who would believe what they had to say? Who would look at that sphere of metal in the middle of nowhere, home to nothing more than clunking primitive machines built for wars they never managed to win, and think for one nanoklick that it housed a massacre and a maniac at its helm?

Within the planet’s capital, hidden in plain sight, forever banished from the light of Cybertron’s star, the maniac made his daily visit to his council chamber.

“And how is my pet doing today?”

As usual, Rattrap asked without expecting an answer. And, as usual, the creature couldn't answer even if he wanted to. His jaw no longer strained against its welded bonds, the rust-stained trickles of solder lying thick on either side of his mouth like he had been drooling molten metal. He did not, but he felt the searing agony against his plating, just under his glossa, as if it was coming up from the pit of his throat. 

Rattrap kept a single head focused on him while his others drawled on, denta jutting out like a crooked pair of needles that twitched incessantly at him. It was the most off-putting of the three that crowded his shoulders like blinking tumours; a grim achievement for Rattrap, considering he wasn't wholly a mech one took any joy in looking at. Just as well that the creature was blindfolded, wickedly sharp silk stretched tight over his optics and scoring grooves all across his face. Even so, he could tell what was happening around him. After so long, the subtle EM fluctuations a frame made while moving were impossible to block out. He couldn’t be truly blind even if he wanted to. 

“It's been a slow vorn, I know... though, whether or not you know is up for debate.” Rattrap’s left head, the one most familiar to the creature, let out a brief but no less grotesque cackle that scraped against the walls of the chamber. Even the mech standing behind Rattrap flinched from the sound of it, though only when he was sure none of the six optics were watching him.

“If I believe it, I'm told a solar cycle spent in psuedo-stasis like this can feel like a stellar.” Rattrap inclined his nearest head towards the figure standing by the door. “How long has it been, Ratbat?”

The Senator answered promptly, a proud purr chipping at the edge of his vocaliser. “Five hundred stellar cycles, sir.”

“Only five?” All three of Rattrap’s heads swivelled in mock shock. “I swear, it feels so long ago…” He shook his center head, the one who talked the most yet not the one the creature knew well. That went to the one on Rattrap’s left shoulder, still giggling under his gnawing vents.

“Yeah, most bots’d just let the rust take ‘em by now!” that head blurted, like a teenspark dimly observing roadkill smeared on the street. “Tell ya’ what, it's almost like he don’t wanna die after all!” He laughed again, a mad sound that almost infected the creature, clamped lips trying to pull at their soldered seams as something grasped at his dusty vocaliser. Nothing could get past his barred mouth, so all that came out was a groan that only blended in with the mighty machinery shackling him, disguised gears and metal moaning like a caged beast pining for sunlight.

“Yes, Tarantulas is convinced that some part of you is still clinging on, despite everything. Like all of us, he wonders why. I mean,” Rattrap knelt now, matching height with his creation, though he would have barely reached the height of his knees if he'd been allowed to stand. “You must be so bored stuck in here,” his center head told the creature, not even trying to inject sympathy into his vocaliser. Why would he, when the torture of the monotony was exactly what he’d planned for? “Day after day, nothing to do but count the klicks… and the dead. Is that why you look so down? Have you been remembering too much again?” Rattrap bared all of his denta in a jagged grin as he tapped the creature’s helm, almost denting the surface with his claw. Across his left shoulder, a taunt had began on a half-buried wave of laughter.

“Well, y’know, we did say we could get a fancy pants mnemosurgeon back down here, help pluck all those nasty lil’ memories away since we’re all done with ‘em-”

“Alas, you always refused,” the center finished. Rattrap tutted, scraping his long denta together like he was lecturing a child. “But I suppose they give you something to actually think about, when you’re not in use. Something to slow that steady march of madness, ever so slightly…”

He leaned in, close enough that the creature would have gladly seized his throat if he could have moved his hands, or any digit that wasn’t welded onto the mocking props of justice he was forced to hold up. Rattrap’s whisper was a foreign scrape of knives against bare metal, a familiar false friendliness coming off in rusty razor flakes.

“Here’s a hint, my friend. Just let it come for you. You'll be much happier for it. Unless…” Rattrap’s shadow then reached forward, and the long silk covering the creature’s optics was pulled up slightly at the edge by his claws. If it had really been five centuries since he’d been allowed to see, then Rattrap did not show any sign of them. The rat was all that he could see, with his optics locked into place. Yet Rattrap obliviously stared into them, searching for any trace of life lurking behind the crimson glass; as if he didn’t know exactly what he would find, as if he didn’t notice all the scars left by the edge of the silk all around the optics. Then he shrugged. “Maybe we have it all wrong. Maybe after all this time, you’re just looking forward to your next meal. Is that it, my pet? Are you just sitting there waiting for the next time you can gorge yourself on some poor bot’s spark?” Rattrap watched the red optics in front of him, his teeth flashing in their dull reflection as he grinned. The creature did not blink, did not look away, and certainly did not cry. Not even when a low current of voices leaked out from a communicator, Rattrap’s servant summoning his attention away.

“Sir.” Ratbat motioned to the door waiting behind them, still spilling a cone of fresh light that just refused to reach the very far end of the room. Rattrap looked to his councillor with a nod, before removing his claws and pushing himself up, walking to the light that he did not deserve. That was the last that the creature saw before the silk fell back over him to slowly gouge all new wounds in his skin, slicing and yet also shielding him from that light before he tried to claw towards it.

“That's my audience waiting,” the rat announced, with pride that only he could afford. “Yours will come soon enough, depending on what mood I’m in.” He was leaving, but his left shoulder threw a quip backwards before the door closed.

“Don't go nowhere, princey!”

Encased within the chambers formerly known as Iacon, the Sparkcracker watched his captor leave with those red optics that were the only other light in his chamber. Something creaked behind the mighty door as it closed on the other two mechs; like the rustle of rusted wings as they pulled against chains, or like a sob that just couldn't get out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Beginning of** **Act I**

**Waltz Of The Snowflakes**

Caminus had a rather unique problem. Most colonies of its size and age started running out of resources by now; seeking out other worlds to plunder or barter with, or stumbling into wars to either force its own expansion into an empire or to put it out of its stagnating misery.

Not Caminus. This colony simply had too _much_ to deal with. Too much fuel, too much ore, too many bright minds crowded onto its surface and trying so desperately to stand out... More aptly, there were just too many Cityspeakers. Too many for Caminus- whose only Metrotitan was its namesake and very being, who only ever had one Speaker who could hear him- to find places for. And with it being a gift that only Camiens could have, it was standard protocol to pluck the gifted ones from their sororities and fraternities and train them within the specialised concertia chambers just in case, just in case, they could hear something extraordinary. Like Caminus himself, perhaps. But the Mistress was the only one to ever have that honor. So the rest of them had to settle for the other dormant Titans scattered across the galaxy.

That was how Windblade got stuck listening to the mute Metroplex, several million light years away on a planet no one liked to talk about even though it was their ancestral home: Cybertron. That was how she spent every day slumped over a barren screen, optics bleary and audios straining for any sign of life, any hint that her Titan was even still functioning so far away. Some Speakers had it worse than her, of course; some didn’t even find a Titan they could hear before they lost their talent to age or disease or they simply forgot how to use it. Some had to put up with the promises that they’d be of use ‘some day’, that their training wouldn’t completely go to waste, only to wake up one day and realise that it had already been wasted. And even with a job to do, Windblade knew it was likely she’d just end up the same as the rest of them.

What could she do to prevent this? Nothing. Nothing at all.  
So she listened. And listened. And only wondered in silence what she was really doing with her life.

Until, just a few orns ago, Metroplex spoke.

She wasn't even at her workstation when she received the transmission, a muffled choke of static that only intensified to a brief, detached garble of phrases when she hurriedly plugged the signal into her amplifier. But, even when she focused on the frequency with all of her talent she could muster, the final message said just about as much as his silence usually did. It was heavily decayed despite how recent it was, a crackle of light years over a sonorous groan that even the more skilled Cityspeakers would have struggled to decrypt.

But Windblade knew Metroplex, and the planet he was housed on. Even if he didn't speak, he still sent system reports routinely, and she knew as much about him as Primus would have if the Titan had come from the original Well of All Sparks. With that knowledge seared into her processor, intently studying the message and pulling it apart, she managed to fish out four words from the static.

_“Emergen…. Army….Instate... Rattrap.”_

Emergency. And Rattrap… what the Pit did that mean?

“Hey, Windy.” Leaning across from her own console, Lightbright snapped her digits in front of Windblade’s face to catch her attention. “You alright?”

Windblade shook herself, realising she’d been staring into her screen for the last ten klicks. Which wasn’t so uncommon for her, but her expression must have given something else away. She turned to Lightbright, and could only think of one thing to say.

“Something... weird is going on with Metroplex.”

And since she had nothing better to be doing, Lightbright volunteered herself (and poor Hot Shot sitting next to her) to help figure it out. She looked through Metro’s system logs while Windblade searched for any reference to what ‘Rattrap’ was supposed to be; ignoring the energon brought to her and the concerned looks the other Speakers around the concertia threw at her, going through every archive she had access to and finding absolutely nothing. It was only when she joined Lightbright in pouring over the logs, with her tired optics and two others looking over her sagging shoulders, that a trend was finally uncovered.

“Woah… look at these monthly statistics.” Lightbright pointed to a chart at the corner of Windblade’s screen. “Natural gas has been gradually moved away from Block 67-ETO to Block 92-GRE, and redirected to the Titan’s center.”

By her side, Hot Shot jostled to point at a different point, figures trailing under his digit. “And, uh… the electricity. Generators were operating at full power in those areas, but anywhere else it shut off every eight joors. Looks like it had different intervals for each district.“

“Water systems within the outer ring also have signs of severe deterioration, way more than any standard decay over here.” Lightbright leaned over Hot Shot to grasp at the other furthest corner of Windblade's screen, practically resting her servos on his helm. Not that he minded.

“Jeesh, how long has this been going on? You never noticed until now?” he asked Windblade, who still sat buried under her wings as she took in the sprawl of stats that she'd just never bothered to piece together. To an uneducated optic it just looked like the infrastructure of a city under curfew, but there was something more sinister underlying the cold facts, something that made Windblade shiver for the planet so far away.

“I never knew Metroplex was in any distress...” Her attempt at defending herself just sounded like a whine in her own audios. She sank lower into her seat. “Most Titans let you know when they're in trouble. I don't know why he only sent a call out now.”

“Likely cause he _isn’t_ in distress,” Lightbright suggested, standing up straight and releasing Hot Shot from his role as a table. “Not obviously at least. The way I see it… someone has been trying to do this silently. Whatever's going on on Cybertron, they don't want us to know about it.”

“Think it might have something to do with this ‘Rattrap’ he mentioned?” Hot Shot asked.

“Maybe… but Titans are never this vague about important things. I think we're just overanalyzing it.”

Windblade only half listened to the other Cityspeakers gathered behind her. She was busy making a decision, one that had her sitting up straight despite the weight of her wings and her neglectful guilt. “We need to tell the Mistress about this.”

The other two might have still been speaking, but they cut off when they heard Windblade speak. They threw each other a long look, much different from the kind they usually reserved for each other.

“Uh... why?” Hot Shot asked, as if she'd just suggested taking a relaxing vacation to Garrus 9.

Windblade blinked and sputtered as she gestured towards her screen, the very same one they'd been dissecting for every single thing wrong with what it was showing. “Because this is not normal, obviously! Metrotitans don't just suddenly decide to start shutting themselves down routinely, way too often for it to just be maintenance. For all we know, Cybertron is going through some kind of martial law! Or worse! I should have noticed this ages ago... the Mistress needs to be told ASAP.”

Lightbright and Hot Shot still regarded her skeptically, shrugging with sideways glances.

“Well, he's _your_ Titan,” Lightbright relented. “Go snitch on him if you want.”

<>“Chances are Mistress won't do anything though,” Hot Shot warned. “It's not like Cybertron is worth any of our effort. We've got better things to do than babysit some barbarians, after all.”

Windblade narrowed her optics. “Hot Shot, we _came_ from those barbarians.”

“Yeah, and look how well we've done away from them!” Hot Shot grinned at her as he left, leaving Lightbright to give her another half-sparked shrug.

“Like I said, Windblade, go do what you want. But Mistress will just dismiss it. It's not like we can go to Cybertron and see what's happening for ourselves.” She laughed at that as she went back to her console, not knowing what she'd just planted in Windblade’s mind as the other femme prepared her findings.

**xx**

“I'd like to request permission to go to Cybertron, Mistress, to investigate these reports myself.” Windblade finished her speech in a rush that emptied her vents, leaving her shaking before the Mistress of Flame even more so than she usually did. The giant, golden-glowing femme towering over her may have only been a symbolic leader of Caminus, without any real political power or say in the runnings of the colony, but something as simple as her presence in a room was enough to command the attention of any bot sharing it with her. She radiated an alien warmth that, coming from anyone else, would have set them at ease. From the Mistress, it only made Windblade shiver more.

“A bold idea, Windblade… but if it is as you say, an envoy will be needed.” The Mistress crossed her digits over the translucent ember embedded in her chest, a representation of the spark she shared with all her followers and children of Caminus. Her staff leaned against her chair, within reach but not for any urgent reason, humming ominously over her words. “In fact, I believe a visit to Cybertron would have been due even without these… disturbing findings.”

“How so?” Windblade piqued up, only just remembering her place with a hand fluttering over her mouth. “Er... if you don’t mind me asking, Mistress.”

The Mistress blinked once, smooth amber lenses sparkling from their own source of light within her, a single move on her solid faceplate that could have held a thousand different meanings but none of which Windblade would ever have been able to glean. Then she stood, casting a fiery shadow that easily dwarfed Windblade, the sheer metallic plates flowing from her waist clinking gently along her legs as she walked to an empty space in her audience chamber. As she rose her servo, a hologram glimmered before her spread digits; the very air and light itself bending to her will, as she snatched up the ghost of a datapad from the projected database suspended in front of her.

“There was a significant change in Cybertron’s command structure not long ago,” she revealed, probing the hologram with her heavy optics. “We received the annual report; not from Sentinel Prime or any other member of the previous Council, nor the new one. This new leader simply called himself… Rattrap.” She framed the name with something that came close to a grimace, but far too elegant to be called such. Windblade, however, was not above twisting her faceplate to show her shock.

“He was not a symbolic Prime,” the Mistress continued, “nor a senator. He was simply their leader, plucked out of nowhere, and so he has been for the past hundred stellar cycles.” With a flick of her wrist, the hologram report dissolved into specks that faded away like dying embers.

Windblade watched the cold light flee, still shivering as she tried to piece together what she'd just been thrown into. She herself had only been sparked fifty years ago, had been in charge of Metroplex for even less time. “How did Rattrap come to power?” she asked, trying to ignore how very small she felt as her wings tucked themselves tightly together.

“His explanation was simply that Sentinel was deposed, and the Council elected him as his replacement. He supplied election results, voter statistics, everything to make himself seem genuine. And in those cycles since, nothing seemed amiss on the planet. So we did not investigate.” For a fleeting instant the Mistress’ digits tensed, and her optics became smoking coals as they watched something distant, invisible and trapped in her claws, far out of any other bot’s reach. “It seems we made a mistake in that.”

The moment passed like a candle being snuffed out, though the smoke still remained behind the Mistress’ optics as she faced Windblade.

“I will make the arrangements to see you to Cybertron safely,” she said. “You will meet with this Rattrap and report back on the state of the planet under his rule, as well as performing your duties with Metroplex. Though, of course, you will need a proper team to accompany you along with your bodyguard.”

Windblade felt her wings catching in her shoulder sockets as they twitched aggressively, betraying the surge of excitement she tried to hide with her tame nod. It would be a purely diplomatic mission, Camiens reaching out to their brethren among the stars out of concern; but even if it was just skipping over light years to say hello to the new neighbours, she couldn't keep her spark calm. Not only would she finally see their fabled birthplace, infamous and shunned as it was, she'd finally meet the Metrotitan she'd been listening to every day- like finally meeting an old friend she'd never known.

Speaking of friends…

“If I may, Mistress, I believe I know who else to take with me.” Windblade could already think of two bots who could do with broadened processors, and a quantum mechanic she wouldn't dare leave behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgot to plug my new writing-only tumblr last time: https://writrobot.tumblr.com/  
> I made it mainly as a place I could keep asks open for anyone who has questions about my stories and ideas to share, and where I could post anything relevant to fanfics.


	3. Chapter 3

“Look, Windblade, if you want to go off planet-hopping and 'bodyguard' your Titan, that's fine, go ahead. But why did you have to go and drag us into it?!” Hot Shot had repeated the plea three times by now, two of those times very closely after he was informed of why exactly he was being dragged away from home.

At the other side of Windblade, watching her frantically pack for their exciting journey, Lightbright shrugged. “It beats sitting at a console all day, at least. That's why you're really going, right Wind?"

Frantically searching under her berth, Windblade only emerged when she'd finally retrieved the armour set she'd left and forgotten there vorns ago to gather dust.

“Like I told you both before, this isn't just about me checking up on my Metrotitan. It's an important mission to see what the Pit is going on over there, and the Mistress is relying on us to do it properly.” She wiped down the metal plates and set them in with the other organised pairs she'd arranged in a case, muttering quickly as she packed. “...Also, I thought I'd get lonely if I only had Chromia.”

Whether or not he heard her, Hot Shot kept groaning to himself. “Just please tell me we won't be stuck over there for long. Believe it or not, I actually have a life around here.”

Windblade allowed herself a spare nanoklick to roll her optics. “The journey will be at least an orbital cycle, including the time needed to leave the star system. I'm sure Caminus will survive without you until then.”

Swinging off her perch, Lightbright shoved an elbow into the mech’s side. “The real question is, will Hot Shot survive without Caminus?”

Hot Shot scowled as he rubbed his bruised plating. “As if you’d be going without me anyway…”

While the two of them did their usual obvious flirting, Windblade gave up trying to organise her belongings, now trying to just shove it all within the confines of her case. At least her sword could just fit in its sheath at her hip; everything else would need to be stored away somewhere.

“Just go get your things together, we need to be ready in-” She checked her chronometer as she tried to force her case closed, and almost lost her grip as she cursed at the time. “Solus…”

Rubbing her digits deep against her helm, Windblade once again checked her communicator for another thing to stress about, muttering under her vents. “Nautica, if you’d like to answer some time before I rust all over-”

The device’s screen gave out a flare of static, before clearing instantly to reveal wide blue optics behind an even brighter visor.

“Windblade!” Nautica pulled the visor up, grinning as sparks from an arc welder scattered over her shoulder. “I thought you were still busy packing. Listen, I got the message from the Mistress, about embarking less than a solar cycle from now. So I’ve taken it upon myself to make the necessary preparations for my research vessel! No need to thank me, I can't wait to show them all off!”

Windblade blinked at the mechanic’s bluntness, and at how quickly she slipped away from the screen to get her ship into full view. _Hermitian _,__ a leftover from Nautica’s doctoral research days, still only looked half-built with a shell of a frame and giant slabs of hull lying against the wall or on the floor, but the mechanic could easily piece it all back together in less than a breem.

“Yes, well, Nautica, I was hoping to get an update before we left,” Windblade said, trying not to let her anxiety seep through. “I know this was a last klick request, and you’re already busy as it is-”

She flinched when Nautica nearly assaulted the camera and blurted out, “Are you fragging kidding me? This is the opportunity of a _lifetime_! Do you know how far or how often I’ve had the chance to go off planet? I’ve only recently managed to get past the gravitational pull of our nearest gas giant!” With a wrench in hand she gestured at a tall pile of experimental data on the only clean tabletop in her personal hangar. “This is Cybertron, where we all came from! The research opportunities are literally limitless. Primus, you think they'd let me near the Well of All Sparks if I ask nice enough?”

Audials gradually adjusting to the loud squeals, Windblade said with a smile, “Okay, okay. Seems I severely underestimated your enthusiasm.” Of course, with travel literally being in her name, she supposed Nautica’s excitement should have been obvious.

The purple femme grinned sheepishly, before kneeling back down to repairing some sort of contraption attached to her ship. ”Granted, I do wish I was given a headstart. But I suppose a religious figure like Mistress wouldn’t understand the fragile nature of preparing for a long-distance mission.” Twirling her wrench and using the light from the tool to illuminate an area inside the starboard section, she added in a mutter, “Half an orbital cycle would have sufficed. I could have at least recharged every so often within those time parameters.”

”You’re lucky she can’t hear you through the comms, otherwise you’d be in deep trouble,” Windblade cautioned seriously. She was open-minded enough to realize that not everyone held faith to their theocracy, not even on Caminus, but she knew the consequences that apostates typically faced if caught. Not anything like imprisonment, not at all- their home wasn't some kind of 'police-state'. The punishment for stepping away from the majority was even worse than that- ostracisation. Becoming an outcast from just about everyone around you, suffering harsh stares and harsher words swapped behind your back. Foreigners and other species were usually treated with polite fascination for their differences, but native Camiens were raised to know better than to go against the flow.

Even so, some like Nautica simply didn’t care about all that. When you were as smart as she was, you didn't really need to care. So the mechanic only gave a lighthearted laugh at Windblade’s warning.

“You’re not one to out me like that, Windy.” Peering out from behind the ship panels, she added, “Besides, I know better than to keep all my calls unencrypted. It’s harder to stay under the radar when I’m one of the few experts in my field of study, but I’ve managed so far. Just let them try to get any sort of confession out of me!”

A burst of light caught their attention as a fuselage inside of the ship blew out. She grimaced, a look of fear crossing her faceplates, before she glanced back at Windblade with a nervous smile. “Well, that’s my cue to make another last-klick repair. A perfect kickstart to this upcoming all-nighter.”

”Will you be alright?” Windblade asked. “I could send over Chromia to help with some of the heavy lifting.”

”Oh, no thanks!” Nautica answered abruptly. “I can handle things on my end well enough on my own.”

”Are you sure? You seem to have your servos full over there.”

Nautica stepped away from the camera’s field of vision as she admitted, “No offense to Chromia, but I don’t need an... inexperienced person at the moment, especially with all the calculations I have to crunch. Unless she can understand the fundamental difference between eigenvalues and eigenstates, she may end up doing more harm than good.” Coming back into view with schematics in hand, she added, “I have to make sure everything is gonna go according to plan, including any emergency procedures I can manage to dig up. I don’t want to set us back any longer or, worse, have us all running into trouble before we even hit touchdown.”

Windblade nodded curtly, completely baffled by her terminology but confident enough that she knew what she was doing. ”I see... in any case, I send you my regards.”

Nautica tipped her helm respectfully, a replacement for a bow often done in the presence of someone of a higher social standing. “Likewise. And try to get some recharge, okay, Miss-Representative-of-all-Caminus?”

The Cityspeaker shook her head in mock disbelief and giggled. “Yes, Mistress,” she droned, as Nautica leaned over to the console and, just before another explosion rocked behind her, ended the call ended with another flurry of static.

Windblade then turned over to the checklist of items the Mistress of Flame asked them to carry during takeoff, as gestures of gratitude to this Chancellor Rattrap. If they were really going to sell themselves as a diplomatic envoy, they had to have the gifts to prove it. With all the chaos in her hangar, she hoped that Nautica had heard how much she would be hauling along with them, on top of the five other passengers they would be bringing along.

**xx**

Launch time had come around much sooner than she anticipated. Fortunately, Windblade had enough foresight to bring everything requested of her. Though, of course, that meant enlisting help to carry it all.

”Did Mistress tell you why we need all this useless junk?” Chromia grunted out while she lugged several tightly sealed crates in her arms. Considering all the other weights she’d managed to lift effortlessly before, Windblade suspected she was only struggling because she didn’t want to be carrying them in the first place.

She followed closely behind her bodyguard, carrying a crate with more fragile items inside. “It’s to make sure we’re in Cybertron’s good graces. She really wants to make sure that we give a positive impression on the new Chancellor, whatever kind of bot he is.”

The blue grounder unceremoniously plopped the items on the ground, making the ship’s cargo bay rattle from the impact. “Alright, if she says so. But I don’t think we should be putting all this dead weight on the poor ship. At this rate, it won’t even get off the ground!”

”I assure you, _he’ll_ handle the extra cargo perfectly fine.”

Windblade glanced through the bay’s open doors to see a familiar face toward the front of the ship, seated adjacent to the pilot’s seat. “Good to see you again, Nautica. I take it repairs went well yesterday?”

Nautica swiveled the chair around and got off, taking the crate from the Cityspeaker. “Yep, and- surprisingly- much sooner than I expected! Turns out I was able to solve the issues such that they took out each other-” She flicked her digits with a proud smile, like sending an alpha particle directly into a hydrogen atom (as Nautica herself would have described it), “-just like a chain reaction.”

A chuckle came from the pilot’s seat as a lithe, dark maroon femme revealed herself, servos crossed over her chest as if holding in any more laughter. ”As usual, she’s not giving herself nearly enough credit.”

Windblade recognised the voice before the frame, so used to seeing it adorned in stage armour. "Vertex?" As usual when she saw the actress, she had to shake off a surge of starstruck shock. It was strange, with how Caminus put its performers in constant spotlight, that you could still be surprised to see the famous face of a friend right in front of you. ”I can’t believe you even had the time to make it on board.” Windblade also didn’t quite understand why they needed an actress on board, unless the Mistress doubted how well they’d be able to fool Rattrap.

Regardless of the reason she was here, Vertex gave an elegant shrug. ”Yes, well, while there are many offers to perform at playhouses in between my company’s tours, I decided that this opportunity held more promise than being, once again, center stage.” Even while she was bragging she had to make such an eloquent show of it, gesturing to herself like she was a maestro at a concert. “I call it a hiatus, an indefinite vacation of sorts. I think I've earned it, after all.” Her long legs uncrossed themselves before she gracefully got up from her seat, towering over Nautica. “That, and Nautica did tell me piloting _Hermitian_ would be a two-femme job.”

Giving a quick glance to Windblade, Nautica nodded and added, ”After what I went through last night, I’m not besides getting professional help.”

Still bringing in crates from the hangar, Chromia set three down with a thump and a bark of laughter. “No offense, Vertex, but just because you once played an ace pilot doesn’t mean you are one.”

The actress shot her a glare, hands bolted on her hips as if ready to deliver an award-winning monologue. “I’ll have you know I did research for that role, so much so that I know how to proficiently handle just about any set of standard spacecraft controls. In fact, I prefer being in the pilot's seat than on stage. I like the challenge.”

”I’ve seen her in the simulator myself,” Nautica said, while Vertex crossed her servos even tighter across her chest. “Even though she hasn’t gone much further than our atmosphere, she’s experienced enough in take-off and landing protocol to make the trip. After surpassing escape velocity-“

”Did somebody say my name?” A voice called out from the left side of the ship, inside one of the small quarters located further from the cockpit.

”No, Lotty, we were talking about take-off!” Nautica shouted back. “If we need you, I’ll comm you myself! As I was saying; after we get out of Caminus’ gravitational pull, it shouldn’t be too hard to guide Vertex through the rest.” She finished her glowing recommendation with a grin- but Windblade was still focused on the sound of yet another passenger already onboard.

”You invited Velocity as well? How long has she been onboard?” she asked, turning her attention back to the the ship’s co-pilot. She only knew of the femme by Nautica mentioning her now and again as a fellow student of the sciences and member of her sorority- though, as a medic, Velocity's studies were more intense. The original list of seven total passengers now went up to nine. How was Nautica expecting to fit all these bots in _as well_ as their cargo?

”I always make sure to bring along a medic during my trips,” Nautica said, as if it was obvious she’d be bringing her along. “She’s not quite graduated yet, but Velocity’s participated in enough sub-orbital trips that I trust her.” Glancing over in the direction of the medbay, she added, “Oh, and I think she’s wrapping up her inventory check.”

”Please, I did that breems ago.” The bright teal femme emerged from a corridor and walked up to the group of four femmes. “Only reason I was still in there was to reorganize. I forgot I left the place a mess from when you went up to get a better look at our friendly neighbourhood asteroid field.”

”Ah, right,” Nautica said. “Wasn’t that an absolute disaster?“

Velocity nodded as she reminisced with a sneer. “Never have I seen so many people get sent in for electromagnetic damage to the servos joints.”

”Serves me right for taking the undergrads.” Nautica sighed as she waved a servo over to the Cityspeaker and her bodyguard. “Lotty, these are a couple of our Cybertron-bound travelers: Windblade and Chromia.”

Velocity stepped over to them, shaking each of their servos rigorously in her tight grip. ”And, hopefully, not my next patients.” Catching their confused looks, she quickly added, “Not that I’m incapable! Just that I, er… hope that there isn’t any need for me.”

”Don’t say that!” Nautica told her. “Even if everything goes well, we need all of _Hermitian_.” That included bringing you along, even if by force!” Just then the mechanic snuck up on the femme and grabbed her weakly by the shoulders, as if to whisk her away.

Velocity shook her helm and gave a reluctant smile as she shrugged off her sorority sister’s loose hold. “As if you’d even need to.”

Nautica patted her on the back, letting her return to the medbay before glancing back to her guests. ”Oh, I forgot to mention. Another bot came in just before you two did.”

Chromia cocked an optic ridge, remembering that Windblade mentioned that some of her fellow castemembers would be coming along. ”A Cityspeaker?”

”That depends”, Vertex interrupted, once again seated comfortably in her pilot’s seat. “Does a Cityspeaker typically carry dozens of SCU retrograde weapons?”

”Now what kind of a question is that?” The blue femme glared at Windblade expectantly. “Who else did you say was coming along?”

Windblade blinked at Chromia’s suspicion. ”Well, Mistress assigned each of us an attendant, someone to ensure our safety. And, since I know for a fact that Hot Shot and Lightbright are coming along, that means-”

Chromia wasn’t patient enough to wait for Windblade’s answer. ”Speaking of those two, they still haven’t arrived!” The agitated bodyguard looked at her surroundings, turning a frown on Nautica. “And another thing; this isn’t going to hold over nine total passengers-” She pointed at Vertex. “-those weapons you just mentioned, and all these fragging _gifts_!” She kicked at the nearest crate for emphasis, thankfully not a fragile one. Nautica barely seemed phased by the femme’s anger.

”Actually, it’s going to work out just alright, if you’ll let me explain,” Nautica calmly told her as she stepped over to a wall, where the cockpit was separated from the neighboring section of the ship. Running a servo over the flat surface, she gave it a hard knock, and a hollow bang followed. “See?”

Chromia blinked, waiting for something else to happen that never did, then creasing her eyeridges over an even deeper frown. ”Are you trying to prank us or something? That’s just a wall!“

”No prank,” Nautica said, still smiling to herself. “I just had to give our other resident weaponry buff a warning that we’re coming in.”

Soon after she said that, a lengthwise crack appeared in the middle of the metal panels, splitting apart while a twin cluster of biolights appeared in the dark void. A lantern flickered to life, revealing a dark blue mech with yellow decals on a frame very similar to Chromia’s.

”You need something?” he asked, face left inscrutable behind the visor that covered it.

”No,” Nautica chirped. “I just wanted to show off.” She turned around to face the others with a flourish. ”Ladies,” she paused, looking back in the direction of the male bodyguard, “and gentlemech.” She gestured toward the empty dark space the mech emerged from. “This here is what I like to call a ‘subspace cabinet’. The official name in the development phase was Transwarp Space Storage Unit, but the title was too long and ‘TSSU’ gets confused with the couple of similar terms in my field.”

”The theoretical concept is, uh… difficult to explain,” she continued, heedless to whether the two femmes were even following along, “especially at this scale; but think of it as a larger version of a subspace pocket, where everything you put in it goes into transwarp space. The researchers who came up with it are still working on the specifics, but I was given permission to make observations on this original prototype.” She clapped her hands together, unable to contain her excitement at getting her hands on it.

Windblade stared at the empty blackness of the cabinet, wondering how on Caminus anyone could willingly trap themselves in it. “Uh… are there any problems with using it?” she asked, grateful that there would be space on the ship but concerned about travelling with something so experimental.

“Yeah, like if I walk in there am I gonna walk out and find myself stranded a hundred light years away?” Chromia challenged, still frowning at all the scientific jargon she couldn’t understand.

Nautica either ignored Chromia or just kept trying to charm her with her smile. ”Not as far as me or my colleagues have been able to discern, although we haven’t thought of throwing anything in here that’s larger than the opening to the cabinet. We haven’t shown any long-term adverse effects after using it, though there’s been a reported loss of time while in there. A bit insignificant though, as far as I’m considered. What about you, Afterburner?”

Afterburner turned his visor over to Nautica. “I haven’t experienced any abnormalities thus far. And all the items brought in haven’t interfered with the workings of the cabinet.”

“Just like I said!” Nautica exclaimed. “When we get back I’m gonna have one put in every wall of the ship-!” A commotion outside cut her off, as Hot Shot and Lightbright finally pulled themselves onboard, with a magenta bodyguard herding them along.

“Sorry we’re late,” Hot Shot mumbled. “We just really didn’t want to come.”

The bodyguard clipped him over the helm with a swipe of her hand. “That’s exactly why I had to drag you right out of your berth, Hot Shot.”

“Yeah, yeah, Maxima, and then you hauled me over your shoulder half the way. The whole colony practically saw it.” The young mech rubbed at his neck while Lightbright inspected the ship, homing in on where the quarters were housed.

“I call dibs on the biggest room!” she announced.

“Actually, they’re all pretty much the same size!”

Nautica informed as she trailed after her.

As Afterburner left the void in the wall behind him, Maxima directed her attention to Windblade with her arms packed full of crates. “Are these gifts to be put away in the subspace cabinet?”

Windblade blinked, wondering just how well known this cabinet was. “Uh, I guess so.” She looked at the checklist on her screen-mounted wrist, pleasantly surprised to see more of it scored off than not. “All that’s left to do is stock up on energon-“

Maxima snapped her helm up as she stacked the crates into the dark space, optics glittering. “And high-grade?”

“No high-grade on my ship!” Nautica called. “Last time we had turbulence I had to spend a decacycle cleaning it up!”

Maxima looked like the mechanic had just slapped her from a mile away. “What? How long are we gonna be gone for?!” She glared at Windblade for an answer, and the Cityspeaker really didn’t want to give her the bad news.

“According to the Mistress… a least a vorn.”

Maxima was frozen for a moment, before letting her shoulders drop with a mighty sigh as shoved the last crate away. “This mission is the real gift that keeps on giving…” Then she looked at her ward again, narrowing her optics with a scowl. “Hot Shot, where’s your sword?”

The mech blinked, miming like he expected it to be hanging at his hip like Windblade’s was, before promptly giving up the act with a shrug. “Come on, Max, it’s not like I’ll need it with me.”

“You don’t know that!” Maxima exploded as she jabbed a sharp digit towards him. “And you’re supposed to have it with you at all times anyway!”

Hot Shot flinched, trying to steer away from his bodyguard’s rage. “Y-Yeah I know, but-”

“No buts! This ship is not leaving until you go back and get it! Right now!” She pointed back towards the ship’s loading ramp, and didn’t take her optics away until Hot Shot dutifully slinked back down it and out of sight.

Peering over her shoulder at the scene, Vertex barely hide her smirk. “And here I thought my troupe was dysfunctional…”

Chromia glared again at her, but she eventually found a comfortable place against the wall; the perfect spot to give everyone a fair look at her utter displeasure.

They were all accounted for, then. Which meant they'd all be leaving very soon. Windblade had everything she needed. Her sword, supplies, armor to change out. No excuse to delay. No reason to halt.

She hadn’t noticed it before but, at that moment, assuming no one else was hiding it as well as her, she was really the only one terrified about going.


	4. Chapter 4

Despite the chaotic calibre of the crew onboard, the trek toward the planet’s coordinates was ultimately uneventful. Though this was the first time in several millennia since any group of Camiens embarked on an intergalactic voyage, the trio of femmes handling the ship knew how to avoid stray asteroids as well as arguments (despite Chromia’s attempts at provoking Vertex enough for an excuse to ‘practice’ her self-defence). Lightbright and Hot Shot spent every moment in their rooms (or in each others rooms, as Windblade suspected), emerging only to snatch up some energon from the stores. Afterburner and Maxima sat like statues in the space between the bunks and the cockpit, the latter trembling sober as she cradled her low-charge energon cubes close to her chest. Velocity hadn't been seen outside the medbay, and when she wasn’t tinkering with the subspace cabinet Nautica would sit in the co-pilot’s seat, one optic on the controls and another on a datapad that hosted an ever-expanding scrawl of algorithms and equations.

As for Windblade… in between polishing and practicing with her sword, all she did was worry. It was all she  _ could _ do, knowing that the source of all her anxiety, the whole reason she was leaving home, was coming closer with every nanoklick. Her sensors frizzled, trying to sense something in the gulf of empty space that surrounded them so completely, a something that she had no idea how to find. She was a Cityspeaker, so shouldn’t she have been able to sense her Metrotitan? Would Metroplex even know who she was if she stood right before him? What about Cybertron itself, their so-called ancestral home? With how long ago Caminus and his first colonists left, would a Cybertronian even be the same species as her?

Windblade spent long breems thinking of even more questions than those, and she was no closer to an answer for any of them when an alarm pealed out from the ship’s comm panel.

_ “Unidentified starcraft, you are entering a restricted transit zone.”  _ The voice from the intercom spoke in a language Windblade could only just piece together meaning from, a kind of primal dialect that sounded both primitive and somehow familiar, as if it was being filtered through a constant stream of snarls. _ “Turn back immediately or we will open fire.” _

Nautica was instantly on the receiver, fumbling her digits in her haste to respond. “What? But we were given permission to-”

The static-choked snarl rang out louder to cut off Nautica’s protest. “ _ This is your last warning, leave now or be destroyed!” _

The pilot flinched back from the threat, her wide optics matching everyone else’s. Windblade’s audios were still ringing from the harsh greeting. Had Cybertron not been told they were coming? Not even Caminus with its strict interstellar borders was quite so aggressive towards outsiders.

Before Vertex could take a chance at charming the hostile mech, Chromia marched up to the console and shoved both femmes out the way, deciding that the best course of action would be to try and get them all killed.

“Listen here, aft-rust, I don't know who you think you are but we’re a diplomatic envoy from Caminus, and we're not leaving until we talk with whoever’s running this place!”

Chromia’s digit was wrenched off the receiver button only when she let Nautica desperately pull her aside too late to save them all.

“... _ Caminus?”  _ The dispatcher seemed caught off guard, and the frantic tapping of a keyboard could be heard on the other end _. “Please hold.” _

There was a click as the line went silent and chaos erupted in the ship’s cabin- all of it towards Chromia.

“What the Pit is wrong with you?!” Nautica hissed. “You've just went and given him a reason to blow us all back to the Big Bang!”

Chromia was barely moved by the pilot’s panic or her attempts at shaking her by the shoulders, effortlessly shrugging her off with a scoff. “He can fragging well try.”

Vertex remained seated, helm cradled in her hands. “Chromia, we have no idea what kind of bots these are, and for all we know you've just went and declared war on them!” She stood up only to jab a digit towards her. “There's a reason  _ your _ kind is only good for heavy lifting!”

“ _ My kind _ ?!” Chromia ignored Nautica to tower over Vertex, fury spitting out like jet fuel. “What the Pit is  _ that _ supposed to mean-?!”

Windblade was halfway out the cabin door to safety when the comm panel crackled back to life, as Nautica pulled the two femmes apart before they spilled any energon. 

“ _...Your transit request has been approved.”  _ The dispatcher didn't sound any less suspicious. _ “Land at the supplied coordinates, and do not deviate from them or-” _

“You'll open fire, yeah yeah. We know the drill,” Nautica spat back before ending the transmission, folding her arms tightly across her chest. “Well done, Chromia, you’ve learned that acting like a sparkling throwing a tantrum is how you get ahead in life.”

Chromia scowled, throwing a glare at Vertex as she sulked back to her seat. “Shut up. We got through, didn't we?” She turned on her heel, marching past Windblade as she still cowered in the doorway and disappearing into her room.

“With our sparks barely spared…” Nautica sat heavily behind the ship controls, sagging beneath the knowledge of having to spend only Primus-knows how long with the likes of the blue bodyguard on a planet that likely already hated them.

Still lodged in the doorway between the ship’s cockpit and the loading bay, Windblade tried to reach out to Metroplex, hoping she could hear him somewhere below, but the silence was just as chilling as the one that filled the cabin. The viewport itself only showed a blank canvas of black space ahead, no stars to be seen in this galaxy. If Cybertron was anywhere in that nothingness, it didn't want to be found.

“I… guess I’ll go let the others know we’re here,” Windblade said, with no answer from either of the pilots as she left. Maxima would surely be eager to find the nearest bar, and the Speaker was considering joining her when they landed.

  
  


**xx**

Left alone in their cabin, the two captains fell into the landing procedure automatically, barely aware of what their hands were doing as they tried to convince themselves that they were out of danger. Even so, Vertex’s digits trembled as they flipped the switches overhead, and Nautica ran through the supplied coordinates as quickly as she could read them off.

“Alright… after that, we have to make sure we match with the adjusted projections...” The purple femme looked at the nav panel again to be certain that everything was correct, not trusting the autopilot to not get them killed. Nautica had already initiated the final phase of preparations when she noticed how quiet her co-pilot was, no click of input or snap of switches from her frozen hands.

“Vertex?” 

The other femme blinked twice, shaking herself as if to hide how much her digits still did. Now that she knew she was being watched, she forced a smile on that would have fooled anyone who didn’t know how good an actress she was.

“Is everything okay?” Nautica asked.

“Fine, fine,” Vertex lied, as Nautica expected she would. “Just… well, it wasn't that long ago when I was only in the simulators. Out here, I feel…  _ seriously _ out of my depth.” She gripped her steering controls, which were thankfully disabled since Nautica would be doing the hard work, hard enough to drive in smooth dents around her digits. “And that glitch Chromia isn't helping at all…”

Nautica knew all along that bringing Chromia on board was more trouble than it was worth, but somehow she’d convinced herself until now that the bodyguard would behave just this once. Though it wasn’t like they could just leave her behind, of course. No Cityspeaker went anywhere without their guard, especially not off Caminus. When it came to meeting the Cybertronians face-to-face, their only hope was that Chromia be too exhausted from hauling all the cargo out to argue anymore with their hosts. 

“I'm sure she's just as nervous as you are,” Nautica assured her friend. “Anyway, just ignore her and what that aft on the commline said. This really isn't that different from the sim.”

Vertex scoffed. “I don’t remember the sim threatening to blow up if you fragged up the landing.”

“Just relax. I'll do the steering. All you have to do is keep us on course.”

Vertex’s stranglehold on her set of controls eased only slightly, and her optics fell just under the nav screen laid out before her. “If it was up to me, we'd have already turned back to Caminus… I just don't like this, Nautica. I _really_ don't.”

Nautica had known Vertex for a long time. They weren’t in the same sorority, or even in the same field of work, but the actress had always been a better friend to Nautica than her so-called amica Firestar had ever been. So the engineer knew when Vertex was seriously worried, more than just passing stage-fright or a flutter in her spark. And she didn’t blame her for it- after all, this was uncharted territory for everyone. Not even the Mistress knew what they might run into. 

“I don't like it either,” Nautica admitted. “But the Mistress is counting on us, and she wouldn't send us in the first place if it was dangerous.” She could at least say that with some confidence, knowing it was true. “Just think of it like… stage directions. Go down, check things out, and be back up at the very first sign of trouble.”

Vertex still couldn’t match Nautica’s optimism, half of her processor still dwelling on an escape plan.

“...How long would it take for a message from here to reach Caminus?” she asked.

“Well, that'd depend on the strength of the transmitter,” Nautica answered. “But assuming it was sent with a basic comm rig… a decacycle, I'd say.”

As if waiting for her cue, Vertex now let the dramatics fly as she flung her servos into the air. “So that's a whole decacycle we could be stranded down there with no one knowing, or even worse!” 

“Didn't I tell you to relax?” Nautica chided. “Besides, that’s with a  _ basic _ comm rig. The Mistress gave us a special unit specifically for contacting her.” She took one hand off the steering controls, reaching into her subspace to pull out one of her mystery devices. “It has a  _ quantum _ transmitter- instantaneous message sending and receiving. I'd been trying to make one myself for vorns only to have it handed right to me!” She tried resisting the urge to squeal in delight, the very same sound she’d repressed when the Mistress first presented it to her, but it was a futile effort. Vertex was skeptical even without Nautica acting like more of a youngling than usual, but it didn't really matter now. According to the nav screen they were just entering Cybertron’s stratosphere, and it was too late to back out now.

“Keep our altitude steady,” Vertex said, fingers glued to the controls. “I'm seeing some structures near the atmosphere line. A little to the left… correct by 45 degrees… landing zone should be right under us.”

Neither femme could see what passed by the viewport with all their focus on the navigation charts, and they both tried not to flinch as the craft’s engines hissed to a slow stop with steam escaping into the strange atmosphere outside. Vertex both pitied it for being forced out into that unknown, and envied it for being able to float back to the freedom of outer space.

“Vertex, look.” Nautica was already out of her seat, pointing out of the semi-covered viewport. The sight was remarkably unremarkable, a dark docking bay with the shadows of other empty spaces receding beyond the floodlit ramps. Anyone might have thought they’d done a round-trip and landed right back in Caminus’ spaceport, if not for the figures waiting in the pools of light. Even from a distance, despite all four limbs and pairs of suspicious optics all accounted for, it was clear that they weren’t Camien. 

Not that Nautica seemed to care. 

“That must be our welcoming committee.” She almost sounded excited to meet them, despite the threat of annihilation still laying fresh both pilots’ processors. Despite how, while the two femmes watched them, they all stood waiting like bearers of bad news. Or perhaps the Camiens themselves were the bad news arriving right on their doorstep.

“...Surprised they haven’t come to drag us out already,” Vertex said. She hurried to disembark anyway, in case they were all as impatient as their first encounter showed. 

Even so, she didn’t want to be the first one to leave. No one ever wanted to be the first one on the stage, left alone to the audience’s mercy.


	5. Chapter 5

Windblade didn’t bring much onboard with her, so she was ready to leave long before Nautica knocked to announce that they’ve landed. She left as the mechanic tried to coax the others out of their rooms (with Maxima threatening to knock down Hot Shot’s door, much to Nautica’s horror). And, for the first time since they took off, she noticed how quiet the ship was. With no hum from the engines or rattle from its cooling systems, no dull murmur of voices from another room, no innocuous click of controls to keep them moving, the ship already seemed buried beneath Cybertron’s grip.

Dead and buried.

She tried not to think too much about why she still couldn’t sense Metroplex as she passed through the ship, towards the loading bay at the back. She focused so much on not thinking that she almost walked right past the medbay without looking inside, with a rapid flash of movement caught in the corner of her optic. 

“Velocity?”

The medic was living up to her namesake, dashing to cabinets and containers so quickly that she was barely more than a blue blur, but from Windblade’s voice she stopped so suddenly that she almost toppled over with the small tower of supplies cradled to her chest. She must have been the first to hear that they’d arrived; from the amount of med-kits, patches, solder refills and energon packs she’d pulled together, she looked like she was being summoned into a war. Windblade couldn’t remember Caminus ever even having wars to speak of.

“Are you trying to stuff the entire medbay into your subspace or something?” she asked, kneeling to pick up some errant boxes that trickled out of Velocity’s grasp. 

“Just… taking whatever might come in handy. Just in case.” Velocity tried to stop another collapse by wrapping both servos tightly around her cache, which was so tall that it obscured her face.

Without an expression to judge, Windblade couldn't tell if this was typical behavior for the medic. “In case of what?” she asked.

“...Just in case,” Velocity repeated, before returning to her frantic supply run as if Windblade was no longer there. The Cityspeaker couldn’t fault her for being cautious, but all it did was remind her of how much that could go wrong before they returned home.

The bodyguards and their wards were already assembled at the  _ Hermitian _ ’s loading bay by the time she reached it. Chromia looked around nervously until she saw Windblade approaching, but still her ped still rapped out an anxious tempo on the floor. Nautica did one last headcount, finishing on Velocity as the medic panted next to Windblade less than a klick after the Cityspeaker’s arrival. Unlike everyone else, Velocity didn’t try to hide her nerves. Bots in her profession got used to being constantly cautious.

“Looks like everyone’s here,” Nautica announced. She sounded like a teacher gathering youngsparks for a trip to one of Caminus’ local asteroids, the sole ray of optimism within the close quarters and safety of the ship.

Beside her, Afterburner asserted a more suitable and solemn tone as he faced the smaller bots. “We will go first.” He gestured to his fellow bodyguards. “The Cityspeakers will leave last, once we’ve confirmed there’s no danger. You all have your weapons?”

All three bots nodded, with their hands on the hilts of their blades. Both Hot Shot and Lightbright had remained silent until now, too anxious to keep up their complaints, but now the latter couldn’t resist giving everyone else something new to worry about.

“But… but what if they’ll just be waiting until we come out to spring a trap? What if the atmosphere’s toxic?” Either because he stuttered or because he rarely said anything worthwhile, none of the bodyguards heard him. They were facing the wide portal which would take them onto Cybertron, the only ones willing to take on the risks and step into the waiting unknown.

“Let’s get this over with, then,” Chromia muttered.

“That’s one thing we can agree on, at least,” Vertex said, almost smiling as Nautica pulled down the heavy door release. Instantly the narrow space was flooded with the hiss and haze of steam, the ship’s quarantined air colliding with the alien atmosphere outside. Hot Shot even held his vents closed, not willing to believe that the air wouldn’t kill him. Windblade cycled the air hesitantly, and was struck by how cold it was. How did the Cybertronians not freeze in these conditions? Her systems were working harder just to generate more heat to stop her from shaking. In front of her, the bodyguards were drowned in the chilled mist as they headed deeper into it without any hesitation. 

“If you see me running back, either they’re shooting at me or I’ve just found out this planet doesn’t have a bar,” Maxima quipped humorlessly without even a shiver, the last of the trio to disappear.

They were gone for what felt like a breem, but the cold and volatile air was still lingering at the edges of the open door when Chromia gave the signal for everyone else to follow.

With the smokescreen fading away, what lay outside was nothing like what Windblade expected, even when she didn’t know what to expect. Like Nautica had seen before her through the viewport, everything looked disturbingly… normal. It was just a spaceport, no different from the one they’d just left. But, unlike what Nautica had seen, Windblade could see every detail of their hosts.

Teeth. Feathers. Thick leather skin in place of armour, yet the glint of metal was still there to catch her optic, almost taunting her as her confusion mounted the more she looked. All the features of an organic race fused so drastically with their own… what  _ were _ these things? Their vents were visible as gales of steam swirling around them, the only similarity they seemed to have with the Camiens.

Despite the threat they’d given before, there was less than a dozen of them. Two stood at the front, clearly the leaders of this squadron. The strangest thing, other than their looks, was that the largest of them, the one speaking with Maxima, actually looked friendly. He noticed the arrival of the others as they crept down the loading ramp, turned to face them with a gold-strapped chin dipped in greeting. 

“Bah-weep granah weep ni ni bong, Camiens. Welcome to Cybertron.” Windblade wasn’t the only one surprised that she could actually understand him outside of the universal greeting; even the bodyguards had to temporarily put aside their suspicion to show it. He held his hand up peacefully, and it was only then that Windblade realised how massive it was. He could easily take all their helms off in a single swipe! 

“I am Rhinox,” the mech continued, “and my fellow commander is Dinobot.” He gestured to the other silent creature beside him, who had a scowl etched into his bright blue face. Windblade thought she saw eyes on his chest, eyes that managed to glare at her despite the dead, glazed-over glass, but she didn’t want to look at him any longer to be sure. She didn’t want to look at  _ any _ of them; not the other composite creatures lined up behind them as if waiting for a cue, nor the strange blue sky above and its clusters of stars tempting her to try and find home among them.

But Metroplex wasn’t up there. He was here, somewhere, still waiting for her. And the people here were still talking, so she had to listen. 

“I’m Nautica, pilot and quantum mechanic.” Nautica was the only one willing to introduce herself, which made no sense because the Nautica everyone knew was neither stupid nor brave enough to throw herself out like that. If she was trying to encourage everyone else to relax, it didn’t work. 

“And I suppose the rest of you are just shy,” Rhinox joked as he studied the rest of the visitors, though no one laughed. “We’ve been sent to ensure that you’ve been received properly. Chancellor Rattrap sends his regards, and an apology that he can't be here to meet you personally.”

Chromia squinted in suspicion at that. “Why? What's he so busy with?”

With an aggressive snort, Dinobot stepped in front of her. “Running an entire planet takes up much of his time. He can’t just drop everything to be a good host. It is  _ our _ job to take you in before you cause any trouble.”

Either the rows of teeth crammed into his mouth made it difficult for him to speak clearly, or he just growled constantly out of habit. The effect was so jarring that Lightbright and Hot Shot both backed away, as much as their bodyguards would allow. But Chromia didn’t even flinch. While they both dared each other to admit defeat and look away first, Rhinox coughed awkwardly.

“Well, uh… if you'd follow us, we’ll take you to be registered.” He set off down the wide main path of the starport, with Dinobot eventually ignoring Chromia to follow behind. But before the soldiers behind them could start to herd the Camiens forward, Afterburner called to him.

“Wait. We’ll need someone to help unload our ship.” Maxima punched his shoulder for delaying her desperate need for a drink even longer, but by the time Rhinox faced him all he saw was the other mech gingerly rubbing his plating.

"Very well.” Rhinox nodded to two of the bots assembled at his side. “Razorbeast, Tigatron. See to it.”

Before the two bots, each of them just as abnormal as their commanders, could nod back at him, a third had pushed her way between them to address Rhinox. The gently-ruffled feathers covering her frame and the tiny wings on her shoulders made her stand out among everyone else, on top of how confidently she addressed Rhinox.

“I’ll help as well.” It wasn’t an offer so much as a statement, and strangely Rhinox didn’t argue with it. 

“Fine, Airazor. Just don’t try and fly everything out.” He sounded weary, as if he was used to this one in particular getting her own way. Was he really the one in charge? Windblade didn’t know what to believe anymore.

Dinobot watched the soldiers start to pull out the haul from Caminus, hissing behind gritted teeth. “What a waste of space.”

“Most of them are actually goodwill gifts from Caminus,” Windblade informed him, but even when someone didn’t glare at him he still responded with nothing but disgust.

“We don’t need your  _ charity _ ,” he scoffed.

“Ignore him,” Rhinox instructed, as Dinobot turned away just so he wouldn’t need to look at any of them. “He's like that even to bots he’s known for years. But  _ I _ don’t know you. What is your name?”

She wasn’t sure why she felt uncomfortable in answering, but she did so anyway. “Uh… Windblade. I’m a Cityspeaker.”

Rhinox blinked, but there was no hint that he recognised what a Cityspeaker even was. “Well, bots will definitely know you’re not from around here when they hear that.” He didn’t specify which part he was referring to, leaving her to ponder it for herself while he gathered the other Camiens.

“If there aren’t any more  _ distractions  _ to deal with, I’d quite like to get this farce over with,” Dinobot growled. He’d marched on out of Windblade’s sight, but he must have turned back just to snarl right into her audio when she was too busy deciphering Rhinox’s expression to notice him sneaking up on her.

“ _ Cityspeaker _ .” He made it sound like a curse, a sound that made her jump so high she feared her wings might make her hover. But when she recovered enough to try and confront him, the vile mech had already stalked away. The others were already trailing after Rhinox, and she had to rush to catch up.

With a look thrown over her shoulder, she saw Afterburner lingering near the other two bodyguards before he headed to the  _ Hermitian’s _ cargo bay. “You two go ahead,” she dimly heard him say. “I’ll make sure our stuff goes where it needs to. Keep an eye on Lightbright for me, Maxima!”

Both Maxima and Chromia seemed reluctant to leave him, but they knew they were needed elsewhere. He could look after himself, anyway. Maxima marched right past Windblade, reaching the others much faster than her with their wide confident strides. Chromia hung back to make sure Windblade didn’t get snatched up- couldn’t have their only reason for being here kidnapped on their very first day, after all. 

“What do you think of all this, Chromia?” Windblade whispered, expecting every wall to be listening in. Her bodyguard gave them all a scoff from the pit of her throat.

"I think I'm gonna freeze my fragging aft off before we get home."

Windblade wouldn't argue with her on that. "Our  _ hosts _ , I mean," she pressed on. "They seem nice, but…”

Chromia didn’t face her, but the roll of her optics was still obvious. “They’re freaks, Windblade. Doesn’t matter how ‘nice’ they are. I’d like to slag that Dinobot right in the jaw, maybe he’d stop drooling with a few denta knocked out.”

Windblade couldn’t argue with that- well, she couldn’t really argue with anyone like Chromia. She kept her head down until they were close enough to the other Cityspeakers to overhear them.

“Are we sure these things are  _ related _ to us?” Lightbright asked, whispering just as Windblade had. “They look so... “

“Creepy? Weird? Horrifying?” Hot Shot suggested, not realising Maxima could hear him until she sternly clapped a hand across his helm.

“Don't be rude,” she scolded. “With how long Caminus and Cybertron have been apart, it'd be strange if they  _ didn't  _ look different.”

Hot Shot rubbed at his forehelm with a frown. “There’s ‘different’, and then there’s being something out of a youngling’s nightmare! Or something  _ I’d _ come up with!”

“And what d’you think that says about you, Hot Shot?” Lightbright quipped, practically counting the klicks until he understood it and called out in offense. 

Even on a different planet, Windblade couldn’t escape her friends’ rampant arguing. With Chromia guarding the rear of their party, she slipped past them until she was behind Rhinox. Dinobot must have been at the very front, with the other soldiers forming a loose circle around them all. Rhinox had chosen to be inside the circle, and the Camiens just had to trust in where they were being led.

If they were all about to be thrown into a dungeon, she might as well try to make friends with their jailor.

"It's pretty cold out, huh?" she asked, making Rhinox jump and almost cause an earthquake. Despite his size he was easily startled by her voice, or likely he just didn’t see her appear by his side.

"We get used to it, I suppose," he told her. "The temperature goes up and down depending on how far into the stellar cycle we are. D'you not have that on Caminus?"

"No, everything stays pretty warm enough." That was the perk of living on a Titan- their spark will keep you toasty no matter what the star in your system was up to. Windblade couldn't imagine having to put up with whatever the stellar decided to throw out. Maybe these Cybertronians were made to be tough, and their organic parts were just a temporary adaption to the cold. “So, are you… some kind of elite guard?”

“Not quite,” Rhinox answered, though it was clear he wished he could say yes. “The elites stay close to the Chancellor. Myself and Dinobot are commanders of his task forces.” He said it with enough pride that it was clearly still an important position. Whatever Rattrap was planning for them, he’d sent out his best to get it done. Windblade didn’t know if that was a compliment or a warning.

“What are you commander of?” she probed deeper, eager to learn as much as she could about their alien hosts, their so-called ancestors.

“The Information and Intelligence Sector. Very important work, ensuring everything in Technotropolis and beyond runs smoothly. Though, I don't usually get sent outside of the capital,” he admitted, while Windblade was busy filing away the bits and pieces of information he was throwing her. She didn’t know how much of it would be useful, so she took all of it just in case.

“I suppose our arrival is a special occasion then, huh?” Nautica asked behind them, managing to keep her eavesdropping completely unknown until that moment. If Rhinox was offended by it, he didn’t show it at all.

“Rampage was supposed to be in my place, but he was called away at the last nanoklick. Be glad that he wasn’t the first bot you saw.” 

With a name like that, Windblade  _ was _ glad. She didn’t think anyone could top how hostile Dinobot and their first communicator were, and she didn’t want the chance to be proven wrong.

Nautica was trying to talk to Rhinox now, much less subtle in her hunger for knowledge, but Windblade had to interrupt her. She’d yet to ask after the most important thing.

“Um, Rhinox… after we’re registered, I need to see Metroplex,” she told him, tumbling the words together in a rush of anxiety. “That’s what Cityspeakers do. We talk to Metrotitans, and it’s important that I-”

Rhinox had slowed down, almost stopping entirely at the mention of the mysterious Titan. Surprised that she knew about him, perhaps? She had to wonder just how much the Mistress had told Rattrap about their reasons for coming here.

“Metroplex?” Rhinox asked, like she’d just asked if she could visit Solus Prime at her forge. “He’s been undergoing maintenance for a while now. Only authorised bots are allowed near him.”

“And  _ you _ are not authorised,” Dinobot snarled over his shoulder, prompting Rhinox to pick up his pace. It was as if he was trying to flee from Windblade’s questions… or maybe she was just being paranoid. 

“How does an entire  _ city _ get shut down just for maintenance?” she asked. “What about all the bots who live on him? Surely you don’t move them all out just for a systems check.”

Dinobot threw her another look, while Rhinox just looked confused. 

“I don’t know what you’re rambling about,  _ Speaker, _ ” Dinobot scoffed. “No one ‘lives’ on Metroplex. He is a military base, not some overglorified apartment block.” 

That caught Windblade off-guard. A Metrotitan’s whole purpose was to be a safe haven in times of distress, a harbour for all sparks who needed one, only needing to fight to defend those who depended on it. What did Cybertron even need a military base for when they had nothing to fight over?

“Well… I’d only need to be near him,” she tried again, “just to hear what he needs to say-”

Rhinox shook his head before she could plead her case further, staring straight ahead. “I’m sorry, Windblade, but you’ll just have to wait. He has to go under maintenance once a stellar cycle, and it can take a while. But in the meantime, Rattrap will want to greet you personally. It’s a great honor, especially for… foreigners.” He cast a glance back at the Camiens gathered behind him; some looking towards the distant cities that were like smudges on the dark horizon, while others still couldn’t stop staring at their hosts. Windblade knew she wouldn’t get anywhere right now, but just as Nautica was about to resume her interrogation and she was preparing to listen in, the Cybertronians stopped abruptly. Rhinox moved aside, like parting of a massive brown curtain, to reveal a peculiar carriage on a set of rails that stretched up and disappeared into the sky. Windblade half expected it to transform into a similarly peculiar Cybertronian, but it stayed dormant. 

“Here we are,” Rhinox announced, gesturing to the open door that the soldiers were already piling into. “Once your ship is unloaded, this pod will take us to Technotropolis’ main plaza.”

Nautica cocked her helm, surely trying to figure out how the pod worked, while Vertex just looked confused beside her. “Wouldn’t our alt modes be faster?” she asked.

“If you want to exhaust yourself, then go ahead,” Dinobot scoffed as he ducked into the pod. “More room for me.”

That was when Windblade realised that this pod must have been the main form of transport around Cybertron. And with that realisation came another, one that wasn’t nearly so reassuring; if these bots were what most Cybertronians looked like in root mode... just what kind of beings did they turn into?


	6. Chapter 6

When night fell across Technotropolis, the city crammed with creatures only half sleeping, Dinobot was admitted into Rattrap’s towering office. His scowl hadn’t budged once during his wait, and it didn’t shy away at the sight of Cybertron’s leader. Dinobot was prepared for at least four optics to be staring at him, but only two greeted him. Senator Ratbat was too busy studying a datapad to notice him as he stood sentinel by Rattrap’s side. Even though the Senator towered over the Chancellor, most somehow knew who was really in charge from the nanoklick they walked in the room.

“Have our guests been taken care of?” Rattrap asked, one head vigilant while the other two sagged over his shoulders like a pair of sleeping hounds. Dinobot nodded, silently glad that the only head awake was the one with the most rational processor. “How many of them were there?”

“Eight, sir. All of them...  _ pure mechanicals _ .” Dinobot snarled the last word, struggling to not spit it out as it tainted his tongue.

“Mechanical, but not Cybertronian,” Ratbat pointed out, not looking up from his datapad. “We don’t know yet just how  _ similar _ they really are.”

“We’ll know soon enough,” Dinobot assured. “And when we do, I strongly urge that we take action. Even with optics on them, they might slip away. They might see something they’re not supposed to.”

Rattrap cocked an eyeridge, jolting his left head from slumber as he inclined his neck. It yawned as the main head slowly asked, “And why would that be a worry, Dinobot, when it’s  _ your _ job to make sure that  _ doesn’t _ happen?”

Dinobot stiffened, causing Ratbat a great deal of amusement in the process. “I… am simply going over all the possibilities, sir. We don’t know how these creatures operate. Who knows what tricks they could pull, and if we can even deal with them?”

Rattrap clicked his teeth together, just as amused as his executive officer. “No, no, I understand. You’re right to be concerned; I wouldn’t trust anyone in this envoy as far as I could throw them. But we’ve yet to see them be hostile, and so has the rest of Cybertron. If then, and until then, treat them like any other citizen. Reduce suspicion. I’m not having anything being sent back that’ll have even more of them breaking the door down.”

Dinobot bowed his helm. “Understood, sir.”

“Good. Otherwise, I’ll have to let Rampage take over from you.” At that threat, the left head giggled garishly as it ground its jaw back and forth. “Heehee, cranky Rampy!” 

Rattrap silenced it with an idle swat of his hand. “Anything else?”

“One of them… Windblade.” Dinobot held back another snarl. “She calls herself the Cityspeaker. She asked after Metroplex.”

Ratbat’s mysterious work at his datapad stopped suddenly, digits frozen. Even Rattrap’s more immature helm went silent.

“...And what was she told?” he asked.

“The same as everyone else,” Dinobot answered diligently. “That he is undergoing maintenance, and is therefore unavailable at the present time. But I suspect that we can only keep her away from him for so long before suspicions come up…”

Rattrap pressed his tongue between his jutting teeth, then turned to his executive. “How long until the conversion is complete?” he asked Ratbat. The purple mech tapped his screen twice to find the answer. 

“According to Tarantulas’ projections… a vorn, at least. And that’s not even accounting for the ‘complications’ that have arisen...”

“We could simply take her to an empty sector, sir,” Dinobot offered. “It seems she can’t sense Metroplex at all if he’s offline.”

Ratbat tutted skeptically as he examined the hidden projections. “Even so, she might know we’re tricking her. And that will cause even more problems. The fact is, having her anywhere near him is dangerous.”

Rattrap made a sound halfway between a hiss and groan between his teeth; something only he could do, and something he only did when he was angered. 

“...Keep an optic on them all for now,” he ordered. “Keep them satisfied. Above all, restrict their access. Track them at  _ all _ times. We’ll decide later what to do with Windblade.”

Dinobot bowed. “Understood, sir.” 

Rattrap dismissed him with a wave as his left head exploded into laughter, “Feed her to Metro! Feed her first!” He silenced it again with a hard squeeze of its jaw, while his right head slept on obliviously.

Dinobot paused, briefly mystified by the outburst, but by now he’d learned to assume that anything that came from the left head was just corrupted nonsense. As for the one on the right… he had never seen that head when it was awake. He wasn’t sure if he ever wanted to. With that in mind he left briskly, not even thinking of lingering around to eavesdrop. That was only something a traitor might do.

  
  


**xx**

  
  


“I gotta say, I take back everything I ever said about you guys,” Hot Shot said as he reclined in one of the lounge seats of the Council’s recreational suite, scarfing down a few energon goodies from a nearby platter. “If the eatings were this good back on Caminus, I’d’a never left the place!”

Beyond the wall-spanning window before him, Technotropolis was sprawled under a cover of night-glinted gold. The city was, quite simply, a paradise. Not only a masterpiece of architecture and engineering, each building’s graceful form giving way to the other as if they were pieces of an elegant jigsaw meant to come together, it was overflowing with resources and fuel. 

From street level, every citizen went about their day with full smiles and full tanks, vendors hawking all manner of energon concoctions from the corners; with not a single one complaining about the cold. The Camiens drew some odd looks as they were escorted to the Central Plaza, but most seemed too immersed in their own love of living to notice them. From there they were taken to the city’s council headquarters, and the registration was no more rigorous than noting their names down and phasing them for any dangerous systems hidden on their frames. 

The bodyguards (including Afterburner who arrived not much later in one piece) had more than enough weaponry packed into their bodies to level a small town, but the Cybertronians didn’t even ask them to disable them. Which was just as well, since Chromia would have caused a diplomatic incident at the mere suggestion. 

The Cityspeakers, on the other servo, were asked to hand over their swords for inspection. With every Speaker nowadays having a bodyguard for off-world excursions, the blades were more ceremonial than anything. Ancient Speakers had defended themselves with such blades, traditionally forged in the spark of their chosen Titan. These ones were not nearly so prestigious, but they could at least cut in an emergency. After looking over each one for a klick, the Cybertronian guards handed them back without comment.

Once they were logged, their escorts bid them farewell (Rhinox did, at least. Dinobot just gave them all another glare for wasting his time) as they were handed off to a squadron of faceless drones, their leader decked in feathers that fell in a trail behind him as he herded the Camiens to the elevator. He never gave his name and he clucked and preened so much that he put Vertex to shame, yet didn’t say anything worth remembering. Finally, after the long ride upwards deposited them at the very top of the building, everyone managed to relax for the first time since they landed on Cybertron. 

Well, almost everyone. Windblade found herself trying to seek out Metroplex through the window, knowing he was somewhere beyond the tantalising cityscape. Waiting for her, waiting for anyone who could hear him. She  _ knew  _ he was there… but she might as well have been back on Caminus for all she could sense of him. 

“Please let us know if you require anything else,” one of the drones said, its voice scrubbed of any emotion to leave only a disconcerting ambiguity behind. “Your comfort is our priority.” As it bowed, it moved its servos like each movement was strictly programmed into its motors with no allowance for deviation. Cybertron clearly had no qualms about using lesser, sparkless machines for its labour.

“I could do with some more’a these, if you don’t mind.” Hot Shot sprayed half-chewed energon flakes all over Lightbright as he shook the empty platter at the nearest drone (while Lightbright tried to seize it to smack him over the head).

Maxima scrunched her olfactories, watching the north side of the lounge while her other guards monitored the other areas. “Ya got a bar around here?” she asked. 

“The floor below has a fully stocked high-grade dispensary for guest use,” the drone recited.

“That’s my night made. See ya in a decacycle, everyone!” She slapped those she passed by across the back as she made for the elevator. 

“I better go with her,” Afterburner said with a groan. “Last time I found her in a bar, she’d been missing the orn before.” 

With him hurrying after Maxima, only Chromia was left to guard the rest of the crew. She didn’t look too perturbed by the task- if anything, she looked like she was about to shut down into recharge. Velocity had staked out her own plush corner, running diagnostics on her internals and triple checking her field medkit. On the other side of the room, neither Vertex or Nautica could sit still. The former paced back and forth while the latter threaded and unthreaded her digits together over and over, as if they were a fascinating puzzle. Nautica cast a look over to one of their supplied drones, which kept itself flush to the wall as if to blend into it.

“Excuse me, where is our ship being kept?” she leaned over to ask. The drone faced her as soon as she started speaking.

“It will remain at the starship dock on the Hydrax Plateau until the time of your departure.” 

“What if we need to visit it before then?”

“A request for access can be made and granted as necessary.” The drone ended the conversation by reasserting its stony posture. Nautica didn’t seem entirely sated, but she didn’t press any further. At some point, she even managed to relax a little.

Everyone was safe. Everyone was fueled. Everyone agreed the view was spectacular…

So then why couldn’t Windblade enjoy it?

“I think I’m gonna go for a walk,” she announced. She’d prefer a chance to stretch her wings rather than her legs, but she didn’t want to risk being put under more security by flying out the window (not to mention getting icicles all over her from the cold).

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Wind,” Lightbright warned, in a tone that clearly said she didn’t really care what the other Cityspeaker got up to as long as it didn’t bother her. “We were told to stay here until the Chancellor summons us.”

“I’m just going down the stairs,” Windblade assured. “Not like there’s a curfew in place.” She said that almost expecting one of the drones to burst out with a rule to prove her wrong, but they were all silent. Even though they didn’t watch her, she could feel that they were constantly aware of her. Not having to look to see where she was going. 

“Well, you’re not going anywhere without me.” Chromia was at her side, holding her hands on her hips to frame the blasters holstered there. It was a habitual pose of hers, even though her shoulders sagged from weariness.

“You sure you don’t want to stay here and rest?” Windblade asked, both out of concern and out of an eager desire to just be alone with her thoughts. Chromia just shook her head, despite how limply it hung on her neck.

“It’s not about what I want to do, it’s about what I  _ have _ to do. You’re not slipping away that easily. Especially not with these freaks all around us…” She looked over her shoulder with narrowed optics at the drones lining the walls like statues.

“Well, okay. Since you insist.” Windblade knew better than to try and shake her off. Maybe Chromia would pass out walking after her, and she could slip away by herself then. It had happened once during last stellar’s Culture Walk on Caminus, where bots lined the streets to drink and flirt under the pretense of ‘exchanging culture’. Windblade hadn’t even wanted to go, but Lightbright and Hot Shot had dragged her out to help them look a little more refined in their efforts to find someone to spend the rest of the night with (and only succeeding in finding each other…). Chromia had tagged along to watch out for her, as was her duty, but after being ambushed with five glasses of free high-grade it was Windblade who had to escort her bodyguard’s barely-conscious frame back to her apartment. It certainly wasn’t Chromia’s proudest moment, but even though Windblade never brought it up Chromia always seemed to know when she was remembering it. 

She never spoke as they descended the stairs together, letting Windblade go in front as usual. A bodyguard never let their charge go behind them, or anywhere out of sight. Even now, when Cityspeakers weren’t nearly as rare and prized as they were during Caminus’ genesis, old customs still won through. Chromia especially seemed like she was made for the role, like her entire spark-lineage was crafted to fit frames that would protect and serve. Windblade often wondered if she enjoyed it; the responsibility, the company, or just feeling like she was needed for something. She seemed like she did, but then again… Windblade was never sure with her. Keeping your walls up was a bit of a job requirement. So did Chromia become a bodyguard because she didn’t want to put them down, or cause she didn’t know how to? 

Windblade had asked herself that ever since the first vorn the femme was assigned to her, and she still had no answer for it. Even now, lightyears from home, she couldn’t stop her mind retreading over old territory. It took her back to Caminus, briefly. Stopped her from panicking, slightly. When she came back out of it, to the sound of Chromia’s hushed voice, she felt a little better equipped to deal with Cybertron. At least, she did until she heard what Chromia was saying. 

“What’re you hoping to find down here, then?” 

Windblade stopped, only now noticing they’d reached the bottom of the stairs, not knowing how many floors they’d actually descended. “Excuse me?”

Chromia huffed as she scanned the tall corridor they’d found themselves in. Though the ceilings were high and gilded, it still felt like a tight space to be in. “Don’t treat me like I’m stupid, Windblade. You’re as jumpy as a petrorabbit in a hive. You don’t trust these Cybertronians any more than I do.” Even though she sneered, she was smart enough to keep it quiet. 

“Of course I don’t,” Windblade whispered, taking furtive glances just like her guard as she tentatively stepped forwards. “But we’ve barely been here longer than a solar cycle. Besides… they must trust  _ us  _ somewhat, if they only have drones guarding us.”

Chromia scoffed, following Windblade’s deliberate slow pace. “What makes you think they’re  _ guarding _ anything? I say they’re here just to keep us in the building.”

She had a point. After all, the Cybertronians must have vetted this place thoroughly if they were giving the Camiens free run of it. There’d be nothing suspicious to find, nothing left out of place to raise any difficult questions. Nothing about Metroplex, either, who Windblade  _ still _ couldn’t sense no matter how hard she stretched her sensors.

“Well…” She shrugged and watched the walls passing by her. “If we had mysterious off-worlders on Caminus, I wouldn’t really want them wandering off either.”

Chromia huffed again, a sound for when something wasn’t worth arguing against. “But Caminus doesn’t have anything to hide.”

“And how do you know that?” Windblade looked over her shoulder to see her bodyguard’s reaction, expecting her to fluster for an answer. But Chromia only rolled her optics. 

“Cause the whole place has about ten inches of space per bot,” she pointed out, “ _ including  _ space inside the Titan. If there was anything secret worth finding, someone would have found it by now. Or, fell over it, or something...” She trailed off and turned her attention to the walls just behind her, as if expecting prying cameras to emerge from them in her wake. Now it was Windblade’s turn to roll her optics. 

“You sound pretty sure about tha-  _ oh _ !”

A loud clang rang out through the empty corridor as she collided with something, something that she didn’t see until she pulled her helm back over her shoulder. A drone had appeared in front of her, sending a platter of energon flakes flying into the air before it stumbled backward and hit its helm against the floor. It must have been heading to replenish Hot Shot’s insatiable appetite, and now it scrambled towards the metal plate while trying to right itself. 

“My deepest apologies,” the automaton sighed, trying to scoop up the scattered flakes from the floor with its hand. Windblade was still reeling from the collision, but the drone didn’t even seem phased from its duties.

“It’s alright, really,” she stammered, bending down to help the drone with the mess. “I should have been watching where I was going…” She held out her hand toward it. The drone hesitated a moment, watching her with flickering optics that were like blank glass, before gently grasping her servo. As she pulled the automaton up, she was surprised by how light it was- so much so that she almost toppled over when she used too much force. Luckily Chromia was right behind her to hold on and steady her fluttering wings, though she quickly pulled Windblade’s wrist to snatch her hand away from the drone. Windblade glared at her bodyguard for making her act so rudely, but the drone didn’t seem to mind at all. It held the tray full of soiled energon like it was bolted to its trembling hands, like it  _ should  _ be bolted there at all times, and looked down like it was appalled that it had fallen. Windblade couldn’t see its optics at all. The impact on the ground must have disrupted its usual subroutines for it to be looking so meek.

“You’re… one of the Camiens, aren’t you?” it asked, barely a whisper that hissed through its vocaliser. Windblade nodded, then realised that it wasn’t able to see her.

“Yes. I’m Windblade, and this Chromia.” She gestured to Chromia still standing behind her, who only grunted in assent.

The drone tilted its helm, daring to look up at them for a nanoklick, before changing its mind and sharply forcing it back down to stare at its peds. This one wasn’t like the others tending to them in the penthouse. This one was cautious… scared? There was a scratch of static as it spoke again.

“And… none of you are... organic?”

Windblade blinked in confusion. Why would any of them be ‘organic’? She thought back to her days of basic training, before anyone (including herself) knew she could talk to cities. A biology mentor had mentioned the term only once or twice, she remembered. Used it to describe creatures that weren’t at all like Camiens. Non-mechanical. Fur and feathers and scales instead of metal… 

“You mean, like the Cybertronians?” she asked. At that, the drone flinched as if Windblade had just slapped it. With its helm turned away, facing a wall that opened up into a window much narrower than those that stretched around the floors above. It looked out that window, and when Windblade followed its gaze she was surprised to see that it was already dark, so dark that she couldn’t even see the lights from other buildings around the plaza. The drone, however, was transfixed by something in the blackness, something that seemed to glide through it like a shadow. Strange figures roaming the skies, in the early hours of the night. Although, how far up off the ground were they? 

The drone looked back at her after some long nanoklicks, no longer bowing its helm. Now that Windblade could see its optics, she thought she saw shadows lurking in them too. 

“They’re  _ not _ Cybertronians.” Its whisper was a hiss from an entirely different machine, one that snapped itself around and started marching back the way it came before Windblade could even absorb what it said, let alone think to ask it what it meant. The Cityspeaker was left silently blinking as she looked after the drone in its retreat, marching down that long straight corridor with not enough weight to put sound in any of its steps. 

“What was that about?” Chromia stood just slightly in front of her, watching after the drone as well with a hard suspicious glare. She must not have heard what it had said so quietly.

“That drone…” Windblade pulled her shoulders together so her wings wouldn’t droop so much. “It said the bots we met today  _ weren’t _ Cybertronians.”

Chromia turned towards her, to offer her a raised eyeridge and a shrug. “Maybe they call themselves somethin’ else here.”

Windblade was already shaking her helm. What else was ‘someone from Cybertron’ supposed to be called? “No, it wasn’t that… it was like it was warning me about them.” Saying it out loud, even so quietly, made her shiver because she knew it was true. “I think they’re lying to us about something.”

“Of course they are.” Chromia’s scoff wasn’t as encouraging as she clearly thought it would be. “Just about every place not built on a cozy Metrotitan has something to lie about. But if it was anything worth worrying about, the Mistress wouldn’t have let us come in the first place. I don’t like these Cybers either, but I ain’t scared of ‘em.” She crossed her arms over her chest, absently flexing the thick protoform beneath the servo armour in anticipation. But, when she didn’t hear Windblade agreeing with her or even chiding her for being even more punch-happy than usual, she unfolded them and put one hand on her charge’s shoulder.

“That drone was probably just malfunctioning. That’s why it ran into you in the first place,” she offered, patting Windblade near the wing joint as she guided her around facing the other way. “C’mon, I think we’ve seen enough for today.”

Windblade nodded absently, forcing herself to not look at that dark window on her left but not moving just yet. “When do you think we’ll get to see Chancellor Rattrap?”

“Better be soon, is all I know. Then we can write this whole place off and head back home.”

Windblade agreed with Chromia on that, at least, and didn’t object any further when she started leading the way back to their suite. She was ready to sleep, even though the strange soft berths provided were nothing like the stasis pods on Caminus. The sooner she was able to recharge, the sooner tomorrow would come. The sooner she’d get to see this Chancellor, and ask him herself. Though, maybe she should have asked the drone about him, even if it was malfunctioning… she looked back over her shoulder when she reached the stairs, thinking of rushing after it before it disappeared, but she saw two other automatons now standing beside it a long way away. She could tell they were different because they kept the other drone in the middle as they walked alongside it, and it didn’t stand as tall as them.

Whatever was really going on with Cybertron, at least the servants looked after each other.


	7. Chapter 7

Even with the wide windows and attentive, stoic drones at their beck and call, staying in the suite for more than two breems would have normally been suffocating; especially for Windblade, who could feel her wings twitching more and more restlessly as she paced back and forth. The only reason Maxima, the only other bot with wings to get anxious with, wasn’t joining her was because she was still passed out with her hangover, and the only reason Windblade didn’t just toss herself out one of those tempting windows was because they had, apparently, been scheduled for another outing into Technotropolis. Not unaccompanied, of course. They just had to wait for their designated botsitter to arrive. 

“Would you sit down, Windy?” Lightbright demanded while sprawled across an entire seat all to herself, refusing to give even an inch to Hot Shot pouting at her peds. “Jeesh, you’re making me dizzy.” 

If she did sit down, Lightbright would then just complain about the sound of her wings flapping and scraping together. So she ignored her friend, the only thing she  _ could  _ ignore at that moment. When she came near the elevator she’d see Chromia shooting another anxious glare at the doors, before stubbornly returning her optics to her peds, only to bring them back up a few nanoklicks later. 

At least Windblade wasn’t the only one on edge, though she couldn’t tell what the others were thinking. Afterburner kept his face blank, leaning outside Maxima’s room for when she decided to drag herself out. Nautica sat at the other side of the suite with a notepad, silent except from the sound of her stylus scribbling down whatever equations seemed to be constantly popping into her head. Velocity was beside her, surgeon digits wiggling restlessly against each other, occasionally leaning over to look at Nautica’s work for a nanoklick before realising she couldn’t understand even one line. And Vertex… somehow, she was the most composed of them all. From how she sat, she was almost unmistakable from the drones that flanked the walls, plugged into their individual stations with nothing to do but stare ahead and wait for orders to activate their programming. Was it some kind of acting exercise she’d picked up, a function of curiosity to see how easily a bot could emulate something with nothing more than a few basic subroutines in its head?

Whatever it was, it was creepy. Windblade almost would have said it was to  _ mock  _ the drones, but even if it was, it wasn’t like they could be offended by it. It was like pretending to be a table, or a lamp. Vertex was an object in the room, instead of a presence. When she thought of it like that, Windblade actually wished she could join her. 

But then the spell was broken, and Vertex’s head turned with everyone else’s towards the elevator. It was humming with a new arrival, and Windblade paused her patrol back and forth across the floor to see who was being brought to them.

“Rise and shine, tourists!” The feathered mech announced himself before the doors even opened, clapping his claws together as he marched out onto the landing. “Come on now, surely you don’t waste precious daylight back on Caminus. We have a big day ahead of us!” 

No one bothered to tell him that Caminus technically had no daylight, nor any atmosphere like Cybertron's. Apart from some changes to the arrangement of explosive plumage around his bright blue frame, the mech looked the same as he had the previous day when he’d first brought the Camiens to the penthouse. Every word he spoke came with an extravagant gesture, one of which saw the feathers sprouting from his servo going right into Chromia’s face. She spluttered and tried to swat them away from her, while the mech obliviously walked onwards and pulled his white-masked optics over them all. He frowned, and the bobble-like crest on his head twitched as he counted each Camien present with a pointing digit. 

“Hm… wasn’t there one more of you yesterday?” he asked. Windblade was about to explain Maxima’s absence, but she lost her train of thought when she noticed something- some _ one _ \- peering out behind the mech’s train of plumage. He looked like a youngling fresh from the hot spot, barely taller than the average bot’s leg, with black horns on his helm. He saw Windblade staring back at him, but that only made his optics even more intense as they bored into her. Everyone else also noticed the little one by now, but just as Chromia looked like she was about to hurl barbs at him from her curled lip, a muffled retch came from Maxima’s room. Afterburner leaned through the door, and helped pull his fellow bodyguard out to stand with everyone else. 

“Here… I’m here,” she hiccuped into the back of her hand. “Just… lemme wait til everything stops spinning.” She pushed Afterburner away, and Hot Shot too when he came to try and help her balance, while the feathered mech looked on with an indecipherable expression.

“I see someone’s already settled in nicely. Wonderful!” He clapped his claws once again with a grin. “Do make sure you’re all cleaned up before we leave.” He turned around and almost slapped Chromia in the face once again, this time with the wide fan of feathers coming out of his rear, just as the bodyguard was sulking off the wall to stand by Windblade. 

“What was his name again?” Windblade asked quietly, mesmerised by the peculiar designs on his feathers; they were like a swarm of optics watching her from all angles.

“He never said,” Chromia huffed, spitting out a piece of tail-fluff that got caught between her denta. “Think I’m gonna call him ‘Aftface’.” 

If he wasn’t going to correct them, Windblade would just call him that too. The youngling at his legs was still trailing behind, hidden behind the drape of his tail feathers and using the cover to continue ogling everyone. Whether or not Lightbright and Hot Shot noticed they were under a spotlight, they were a lot less hostile while bolstered by the thought of finally getting to take in some fresh atmosphere (and from not being attacked by their host’s plumage). 

“Thank Solus, we can finally stretch our struts out!” Hot Shot leapt up from the tiny corner of the seat Lightbright had stolen from him, raising his servos in celebration and preparation for the day ahead. 

“With all that fuel you ordered last night, I’m surprised you can even move,” Lightbright said, kicking him lightly in the aft from where she still lay flat on her side before finally dragging herself upright. Everyone was restless; even Vertex had shed her drone disguise to try and get in the elevator first, and be standing on ground that wasn’t suspended so far up in the air. But Windblade couldn’t help looking with concern over at Maxima, whose struts were still shaking like they were about to collapse in on themselves. This was more than just a hangover… Velocity noticed it too, and she was the only one who could get close without being swatted away. The medic held the back of her hand to the bodyguard’s helm, and tutted.

“I don’t think you should be going anywhere today, Maxima… you need to stay here and rest.”

“Don’t be stupid, I’m… I’m fine. Really.” Maxima scoffed and tried to shove Velocity’s servo away, only managing to unbalance herself and almost fall flat on her face.

“ _ You’re _ the one being stupid if you think I’m letting you try to waddle out when you can barely stand.” Velocity seized Maxima’s servo and pulled her over to a free seat. “I’ll stay here too, to make sure you don’t get any worse.”

Maxima grumbled and groaned as she was forced flat on her back, but eventually conceded defeat when she turned around to press the side of her spinning head into something soft. 

“Fine,” she slurred, “but if I’m not going... then neither is Hot Shot.”

“What?!” Hot Shot whirled around, so self-absorbed that he heard his name even when it was just a mumble. “That’s not fair! You get blackout drunk and  _ I’m  _ the one being punished for it?!”

Maxima was already snoring, so Velocity shrugged. “You know the rules, Shot. You don’t go anywhere without your bodyguard, especially not wandering around a strange new planet.”

“Oh,  _ come on _ !” Hot Shot stamped his ped, as if that single act of rebellion could change anything. “Chromia and Afterburner are good enough for three of us! Right?” He turned to the other two guards for anyone to back him up. Afterburner only joined Velocity in shrugging helplessly.

“Rules are rules, buddy. Look after her while we’re gone.”

“We’ll tell you all about it when we get back!” Lightbright promised with a smirk over her shoulder, almost walking right into Aftface; though, his face was more of a scowl than an aft now. Even his feathers seemed to be frowning, though his more prominent back ones stood upright at attention. 

“What on Cybertron is the hold-up here?” he demanded, assessing each of them like they were all plotting to sabotage his entire day. 

“Maxima’s sick,” Velocity stated, “so three of us have to stay behind.”

Aftface rolled his optics, making his crest bob impatiently. “Fine, fine, just behave yourselves. May we please get a move on?” He was already turning back towards the elevator, and this time Chromia managed to avoid being swatted in the face by shoving Lightbright out in front of her. Though his efforts to get out of the suite had been a failure, Hot Shot still snorted with laughter at his on-and-off friend spluttering and trying to clear her face of feathers. Everyone else was migrating towards the elevator, but just as Windblade was about to enter she thought she’d ask the question that, for some reason, no-one else had thought to ask.

“Uh, before we go-”

“Yes, yes, what now?” Aftface squawked with his claws on his hips. “We’re on a tight schedule!”

“Do you have a name?”

He blinked, then his optics brightened as his mouth spread impossibly wide. “Oh.  _ Ohhh _ , I did it again, didn’t I? Completely forgot to introduce myself! I swear, my processor is as small as some of these drones’ sometimes.” He shook his helm at himself, and cleared his vocaliser with a proud trill that seemed to expand his feathers all around him, green and blue and watchful eyes all rustling together and, somehow, completely obscuring everyone else behind the array of feathers. 

“I, my dear guests, am Monopoly,” he announced, only now letting his feathers go flat while everyone tried to bat them aside. “Head of drone deployment and training around here, though today I have the honor of being your personal escort.” 

“Snip snip.” A second voice came out from the shade of his feathers, the youngling emerging once again now that he was surrounded by Camiens. And, once again, he stared at Windblade the most when she entered the elevator. 

“And, er... this is Scissor Boy,” Monopoly said with a dismissive gesture towards his peds. “He’ll also be accompanying us.”

Chromia snorted with a raised eyeridge. “That really his name?”

“It’s what everyone calls him,” Monopoly explained with a sigh, as he reached over to press a button that would take them all downwards. “He won’t listen to you if you use anything else. It’s a youth thing, you know. Friends giving each other silly names.”

So he really was as young as he looked. Windblade didn’t know why he’d been brought along, but she figured he was scared as he was curious. She leaned down as much as she could in the cramped space, and reached a digit out to him.

“Nice to meet you, Scissor Boy.”

He looked down at her hand, optics still stretched wide, and reached out his own. But instead of taking it, he snapped his claws together at her. “Snip snip! Granah wheep ni ni bong.” He grinned, and Windblade figured that everyone on Cybertron was taught the universal greeting before anything else. 

“I do apologise for his staring problem,” Monopoly said with another weary sigh as Windblade straightened herself. “Like everyone else, he’s been dying to see you all since you arrived. His sire is a member of the council, so he’s been allowed to join us to keep him out of trouble.”

' _ Sire?' _ Windblade asked herself silently.

“‘Everyone else’?” Nautica asked out loud, speaking up from her notepad as she was putting it away. 

“Yes, we don’t get visitors very often,” Monopoly said with a smile. “You can imagine how curious we all are about you. ”

Chromia grunted and crossed her servos tight around her chest, feeling disconcerted at the thought of their newfound celebrity status. “So long as no-one tries touching me, they can stare all they like.”

“A good attitude to have.” Monopoly clucked with amusement. “It’s only a short walk, but you’ll be attracting quite a lot of attention on it.”

Windblade realised that this wasn’t just a friendly outing into the city. “Where exactly are we going, Monopoly?” she asked. He ruffled his feathers once, and looked down at her with a haughty smile.

“Where else? To see his excellence himself, Chancellor Rattrap."

  
  


**xx**

  
  


Just as Monopoly had said, the Council chambers were just a walk across the plaza from where the Camiens had been allocated to. The cold wasn't so bad now that it was expected, but that was the least of anyone's concern. As Monopoly had also warned them, the walk was punctuated by stares and whispers and the occasional pointing digit from a whole menagerie of strange half-organics. The Camiens were even more popular than they’d been yesterday on their arrival; or maybe it just seemed that way because Windblade was so much more conscious of it now. Chromia at least shielded her from most of the prying optics; though, the ones patterned on Monopoly’s feathers were inescapable, and somehow the most unnerving of all. Did he paint them on each feather, or did they just grow in like that? It seemed rude to ask, so she didn’t. In fact, no one at all spoke until they were secure from the outside chill and clamor, behind another set of doors within the council building. 

“The Chancellor will receive you all shortly,” Monopoly said quietly as he lead them all through the eerily barren chambers. “He just needs to finish up some other business first.” His feathers rustled loudly as he left them in a wide vaulted hall lined with firm benches, a gallery that surrounded the upper half of the room, and silent guards- not drones this time. They gave sidelong glances at the new arrivals and kept their hands bolted on their heavy blasters, but otherwise did not give betray any curiosity. Other than them, there was only one other presence in that mighty hall- a towering statue of a winged mech; chiselled with one leg kneeling low, one hand holding a sword and the other holding aloft a precariously balanced set of scales. Upon closer inspection, Windblade saw that where the optics would have been were covered by some kind of organic weave, and that the whole piece was marked with age and decay. Even so, it was an impressive sight, well worthy of being the crown jewel of the council halls. Vertex had let out a gasp of awe behind Windblade when she caught sight of it, while the Cityspeaker found herself paying most attention to the wings spread out wide behind the mech. Who was he, the most ‘normal’ looking of all beings she’d seen so far on this planet, who wasn’t even alive? What did he do to have his image preserved like this? Not even the Mistress of Flame was given such an honor- not that she would have encouraged it, when she was simply a messenger for Primus and Caminus. Maybe Windblade would have time to ask the Chancellor, once she broached the subject of Metroplex.

With nothing to do but wait, everyone sat awkwardly at their benches; Nautica quickly returned to her notepad to keep herself productive. Vertex had her own pad, something to read that she absently flicked through. Everyone else was doomed to either admiring the walls or the mighty statue, wondering why there were no windows here, looking up at the ceiling, and trying not to stare at the guards just as they tried not to stare back.

“Snip snip.”

Windblade jumped in her seat, suddenly hearing both Scissor Boy and the clack of his claws just a few inches from her audios. He sat next to her at the very edge of the bench. Just as Windblade was going to ask why he wasn’t off with Monopoly, Chromia leaned over to wag a digit at him.

“Hey, back off!” She bared her denta in warning as the youngling flinched away, holding up his huge claws to shield himself from her glare. 

“Woah... relax, Chromia.” Windblade frowned at her overzealous guard before turning to Scissor Boy, who still sat cowering from her. “Sorry about her. She’s a little protective.” Windblade heard Chromia grunt, but didn’t turn her optics away from the youngling. She didn’t have much experience dealing with Camien newsparks, let alone Cybertronian ones, but she figured a friendly face was all they’d need to calm down. Eventually Scissor Boy lowered his servos, clicking them nervously as he looked up at Windblade.

“I... just wanted to ask…” He swung his legs down, then pointed one huge claw at her. “What’s that thing on your face?”

Windblade felt around her face in confusion, before realising he was talking about the markings on her cheeks. She hadn’t even realised how strange they’d look to anyone outside of Caminus. “It’s a traditional Camien design,” she explained gently. “Cityspeakers have them painted on when we finish our training.”

“City-what?” Scissor Boy’s optics somehow grew even bigger. 

“It means we can talk to Metrotitans.” Windblade lowered her voice a tone. ”Like... Metroplex. Do you know him?”

He blinked, though his face remained completely blank. “Where are your feathers?” He stood up on the bench to peer around her shoulders, as if expecting to see some burst out of her wing joints.

“We don’t have feathers.”

“Scales?” Scissor Boy jumped down to inspect around her peds.

“Don’t have those, either.”

“Fur? Chitin? That leather-stuff Mr Rhinox has?” He looked up at her in complete bewilderment. “You don’t have  _ any  _ of that?”

Windblade shook her helm, unable to stop smiling at the kid’s awe. “We’re just metal. It’s how we were made.”

Scissor Boy tilted his helm at her, as if debating over whether she was telling the truth. “Wow… snip. Your parents must look weird, too.”

"Parents?" Windblade asked, only prompting the young one to tilt his head even further so that it was almost upside down.

"Y'know… sire and carrier," he said. "The ones that made you."

Windblade's processor drew a complete blank.  _ Caminus  _ was the one who had made her- at least, his hotspot did. Just as it had made Chromia, and everyone else around here. There was that 'sire' word again, too... Solus, she wished she had a Cybertronian-to-Camien dictionary or something.

“I guess we don’t have 'parents',” Nautica chipped in from the bench placed on the other side of the hallway.

Scissor Boy looked from Nautica to Windblade, then back and forth in such rapid succession that it was a wonder his head didn’t pop off. “Seriously? How'd you get sparks then?!”

“Well, our sparks come from…” Nautica had set aside her notepad to try and gesture towards what she was thinking of, her hands forming around an invisible orb hanging in her lap meant to represent the Caminus hot spot. It should have been easy to explain to a Cybertronian, who were lucky enough to have Primus’ own spark to birth them, but for some reason Nautica struggled with explaining it. Eventually she pursed her lips together and shrugged. “Er… I guess you could say we have our own Well.”

“Well…?” That only confused Scissor Boy even more, sending one eyeridge almost flying off his face. 

“Yeah, doesn’t Cybertron have one at its core?” Nautica tried. “Where the original sparks all came from?”

“The last remaining essence of Primus himself,” Vertex recited while not taking her optics off her datapad, “left behind to give eternal life to his deceased body.”

It was the same thing every Camien was taught about their ancestral history, in all the same stories that persisted in the archives every citizen had access to. But Scissor Boy looked worse than confused now. He was cowering again… as if he thought he was being threatened. Windblade looked behind her to see if Chromia was glaring at him again, but her bodyguard wasn’t even looking in their direction. She looked back to Scissor Boy, who was clicking his claws over and over like some nervous tic, no longer looking anywhere that wasn’t his peds.

“Y… y-you mean… the Well of Tainted Sparks?” he asked quietly, flinching again even as he said it, as if he was being forced to spit it out. It was such a guilty mumble that Windblade thought she heard him wrong.

“I… thought it was called the Well of  _ All  _ Sparks,” she said. Scissor Boy started clicking his claws faster and shaking his head, left and right and left like he really  _ was  _ trying to make his head fly off.

“U-uh… uh… f-forget I said anything. Snip snip. I gotta go.” He whirled around and started running away, his peds making frantic taps on the floor as the Camiens stared helplessly after him. Only the guards didn’t look perturbed by the youngling’s reaction; they just kept on staring ahead and holding onto their weapons.

“The Pit is up with him?” Nautica asked, chewing on the end of her stylus. 

“Newsparks are weird,” Chromia sighed, standing in front of Windblade now and holding out the vid-pager they’d been given before leaving home. “Got a transmission from Caminus for you.”

“Oh!” The Mistress had said she’d comm them regularly for status reports when they arrived. Each transmission would be relayed through the ship’s specialised receiver, which was the only thing strong enough to send signals to Caminus, which would then route the message to the portable pager fitted with the ‘quantum transmitter’ Nautica had been so excited over. Since Metroplex was Windblade’s assigned Titan, it made sense that the Mistress would comm her bodyguard first. The Cityspeaker composed herself, lightly brushing her cheeks free of any grease so she’d look presentable, before she took the pager.

“Mistress.” Windblade exhaled, relieved to see the familiar constant of Caminus’ figurehead even if it was only through a screen barely bigger than her palm. The Mistress sat in her own chambers, her staff held tight in her hand and just out of frame. 

“Well met, Windblade.” The Mistress nodded in greeting, the slightest tilt of her head. “I take it that you’ve arrived safely on Cybertron?”

“We have, Mistress. We’re going to meet with Chancellor Rattrap very soon.” Windblade tried to keep her optics respectfully on the screen while also trying to push away Lightbright and Nautica, who were jostling to see the Mistress for themselves. 

“And I trust you’ve been treated appropriately by your hosts?”

“Some of them have been… suspicious of us.” Windblade knew that Dinobot wouldn’t be the only bot on the planet less than thrilled to have them around. “But most have been very accommodating. Though, I’ve yet to be given access to Metroplex… I’m going to ask the Chancellor directly to make arrangements for me to communicate with him.” She repositioned herself on the bench, trying to work the numbness from her rear while the Mistress nodded again in approval.

“See to it, Windblade. I have faith in you and your fellow City-” Then she abruptly stopped herself, and a dark shadow fell over her expression. At first Windblade thought that one of the pyres in her chamber had simply been extinguished, but the flames kept flickering all around her as her face curled inwards.

“What are those…  _ things  _ behind you, Windblade?” she grated out from her clenched denta. Windblade blinked, looking behind her and only seeing the guards standing on either side of the hall, flanking the grand door at the end of it.

“They’re… Cybertronians, Mistress,” she said hesitantly. The Mistress recoiled like she’d just been slapped through the screen.

“These... these disgusting creatures are supposed to be our ancestors?! Unbelievable! To think I would have my own delegates meet with such vulgar-”

It took Windblade far too long to overcome the shock of hearing her Mistress in such a hateful state. By the time she did, it was too late to stop the guards overhearing the worst of it. With her whole face burning so hot that she feared her paint would peel off, Windblade tried to clamp a hand over the pager’s speaker and turned away. 

“Uh… M-Mistress, surely that’s no way to refer to the people so graciously hosting us...” She looked up from the screen to see that Nautica, Lightbright and Vertex were equally horrified by the outburst they’d just heard. Even Chromia looked flushed, and Afterburner was trying to make himself blend into the wall. 

“‘People’?” The Mistress scoffed, barely muffled by Windblade’s attempts to dampen the speaker. “Windblade, these abominations barely even qualify for such a word! This is even worse than I thought… I should have you returned to Caminus immediately-”

“Mistress, please, they’re really not as… strange as they look.” Windblade gulped, knowing that the guards were likely aiming their weapons at her at that very moment. “They’ve shown us nothing but kindness since our arrival. A-And… we still have to see Metroplex before we can even think of leaving.” That was the most important thing of all. That was the whole reason she’d come this far. The Mistress knew that, even if all she was really thinking of was her own xenophobia. Windblade watched her regain her composure, pulling it in and tying a tight leash around it, before she exhaled deeply and closed her optics.

“Very well... do your duty, Windblade. And do it quickly. Just the thought of having my people stranded there with such creatures around them makes my spark ache…” The Mistress made another uncharacteristic sound of disgust before the transmission finally ended. Windblade felt like she wanted to throw the pager on the floor.

“I… wasn’t expecting that kind of reaction,” Lightbright said sheepishly, while Windblade sank her head into her hands.

“Solus, kill me now…” Better Solus than a rightfully offended mob of Cybertronians, at least. A Prime would show mercy. A Prime wouldn’t make her be in this kind of situation in the first place.

“Camiens?” A new voice echoed from down the hall, and Windblade turned her helm to see a bot leaning sideways out of the crack in the massive door. “The Chancellor will see you now.” 

It was just a few nanoklicks too late. If Windblade had been smart enough to take the call somewhere private, somewhere she  _ should  _ have answered it, then she wouldn’t have had to hide her face as she was forced to walk past the guards on either side of the door. Even with Chromia in front and Afterburner behind her, she felt like she was walking into an ambush of her own making. Against her better judgement, against her survival instincts, she looked up at one of the guards. He had tusks and matted fur over his plates, and a look of pure scorn across his face that surely mirrored his companions’. 

Windblade was almost hoping that one of those tusks would just stab her through the spark, but she was bustled too quickly through the door for the guard to make any move. Seemed like she was the only one of the group ready to lie down and die. 

“Feel free to ask him whatever questions you may have,” their latest guide was saying, all pristine scales with a darting glossa. “This is quite a novel situation, so we don’t have any existing formalities in place. Though, er… if you must stare, try to only look at one head at a time.”

“One… what?” Nautica asked, just as they turned the corner and saw for themselves what that was supposed to mean. 

The room was bigger than any other Windblade had seen on the planet, more like a culture hall on Caminus. The centrepiece looked like a regal court, with twelve spaces all arranged around the center. In the very middle seat sat a single mech, with three heads balanced precariously on his shoulders. The right was asleep, the left was rolling his optics like they weren’t quite secure in their sockets, and the one in the centre smiled through the two prominent denta jutting down from his upper jaw. 

“How lovely to meet you at last, my dear guests,” the leading head called out, beckoning them with outstretched servos. “I am Rattrap, and I am honoured to welcome you to our home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mistress of Flame guilty of space racism (spacism)


	8. Chapter 8

Windblade didn’t know if she should be bowing. She considered it, if only to stop herself from staring between the three heads bared before her. 

At first she thought it was simply two other bots hiding behind Rattrap, peering over each shoulder, but as he rose from his seat she saw that each one was attached to the same fur-furnished body. Was this really considered  _ normal _ by Cybertronian standards? Perhaps the other scale and feather-adorned people they’d seen were just to prepare them for the bizarre reality of the planet’s natives... would she later find a bot with six servos, or none at all, waiting around the corner? Or one with a face full of only optics, the gaze of each one weighing heavily down on her? Right now she had to deal with… well, counting Rattrap’s awakened heads and those of the other bots keeping their distance from him, she had five pairs of optics in total to brave against. Though, the owner of one of them looked remarkably...  _ normal _ . No fur or feathers in sight, at least as far as Windblade could. She knew it wasn’t polite to stare, not back home and not anywhere else, so she didn’t. 

“Well, don’t be shy,” Rattrap said with another beckon from his claws that desperately wanted to look friendly. “Come, come, let me see you.” He said ‘me’ instead of ‘us’, as if those extra heads were just eccentric shoulderpads. With the bodyguards leading in front, the Camiens obeyed out of politeness, and it was only once they were closer that Windblade realised just how  _ small  _ their host was. On Caminus he’d hardly be taller than someone fresh from the hot spot. Was this just another one of the many things that set Cybertronians and Camiens apart? Some kind of evolutionary advantage that cropped up on top of everything else? A smaller body needed less fuel to keep it powered and warm, Windblade supposed. Still, it was hard for any kind of leader to look intimidating if he had to crane his neck to address his people. 

Afterburner, Solus bless him, took it upon himself to speak first.

“Thank you for receiving us so warmly, Chancellor.” He bowed, as he normally would before the Mistress, though that was probably just to make it easier to not stare down at their host. "I am Afterburner, bodyguard to Cityspeaker Lightbright.” By introducing his ward as well, he reduced the risk of her potentially embarrassing herself. Still, with the likes of Lightbright, she’d probably find a way to make a fool of herself anyway- even without Hot Shot around to help. For now, at least, she took the hint to stay quiet as the others made themselves known. 

“Nautica, sir. Pilot and quantum mechanic. And this is my co-pilot, Vertex.” As Nautica gestured to her, Vertex took it upon herself to practice her formal curtsy for the Cybertronians. 

“Chromia. Bodyguard to Cityspeaker Windblade.” The extent of her formality extended barely further than a shrug of her shoulders. Though Windblade knew Chromia was just following Afterburner’s example, she still felt slighted at being reduced to just ‘Cityspeaker’ (and especially with such a rude introduction). She cleared her vocaliser and, knowing Rattrap was now staring right at her, stepped forward to try and salvage her image by herself.

“It’s nice to meet you, Chancellor,” she said with a deep bow that mirrored Afterburner's. When she straightened up, she found Rattrap peering at her with all four open optics.

“Windblade… yes, I’ve heard of you especially. What an honor to meet you all at last.”

She blinked, caught off-guard by his sudden interest. She had to take a moment to collect her thoughts into appropriate files, before she was ready to seize her chance to get to Metroplex. “And you as well, sir. I was hoping I could petition you for access to-”

"Weren't there supposed to be more of you?" he interrupted, with his more dubious head on the left peering at each of the Camiens… suspiciously. "Nine in total, correct?"

Windblade couldn't tell if he'd even been listening to her before he cut her off. She looked to Afterburner, before figuring it would be better to explain it herself. "Yes, but sadly one of our bodyguards fell ill this morning. Her Cityspeaker and our medic stayed behind to care for her."

"Ah. What a shame." Rattrap nodded in sympathy, while his other head finally settled down with a chitter. "Well, allow me to introduce my own guard; Inferno, Quickstrike and Ironhide." He gestured to each of the mechs standing behind him, with Ironhide revealed as the 'normal' one. "Usually there are four, but- oh, here’s the late-comer now.”

Windblade hadn't heard the arrival, but she looked over her shoulder to see a new mech- no… was that a mech? He had peds that could walk, green optics that could see and glare, but… where was his mouth? Instead there was a cage of razor-looking spines covering the lower half of his face. His head too was crowned by no less than six horns curving up towards the vast ceiling, that only made him seem even bigger than he was. He looked more like an artifact than a living being, like a fossil from Caminus' reliquary museum. Which was fitting, considering all that Caminus the Titan had brought along with him across the stars were the remains of Cybertron's past- preserved carcasses, gems, skeletal structures, mummified chassis'. Vertex, the history geek that she was, must have been having a processor flash at the sight of this creature that came walking right through them, parting them like he was separating energon from slag. He wasn't like the other Cybertronians, not the others that she'd seen, nor like them or Ironhide, so just what  _ was _ this thing supposed to be? Rattrap gave him a name as he approached.

“How nice of you to join us at last, Rampage.” Only a true leader could have survived using such sarcasm on a creature like that.  _ This  _ was the mech that was going to greet them in Rhinox’s place? Rampage, a name that Windblade feared he had easily earned in some way, gave out a grunt plucked from the cavern of his chest, and forced it through the jagged bars where his mouth should have been. 

“Apologies for my absence, my liege." The fact that he could speak didn't surprise Windblade as much as the fact that he was  _ apologising,  _ to a mech he could have easily trampled in a nanoklick. "I was with Transmutate.”

Rattrap gave a cryptic nod, while Windblade was still left reeling from the sight of Rampage. “I trust everything is in order now?”

“Yes.” 

“Good." And that was that, as Rampage took his place behind the Chancellor (beside the mech assigned as Ironhide, both of them looking suitably out-of-place). "Well, now that we’re all here, I’d like to invite you all on a tour of our humble chambers." He flourished a servo around the decidedly not-at-all-humble room, almost smacking one of his heads with his hand. "We house our greatest relics and treasures here, and in the vaults. We’d be honored to show them to such rare guests."

The Camiens were still shaking off Rampage's arrival, but Afterburner was quick enough to fill the silence. "And we would be honored to see them, Chancellor. Please, lead the way." 

If Maxima had been with them she would have first gone to see just how far down these vaults were, if there were any escape routes. That was  _ her _ role as bodyguard, keeping them safe with her processor. Afterburner's tactic was to keep them safe with his words, defusing any situation before it could escalate to needing violence. Chromia liked to think she was a mixture of the two, but in Windblade's honest opinion her temper was so thin that she'd more likely  _ cause  _ an incident than solve one.

Even so, she would have rather Chromia had gone ahead of Afterburner. Just in case. She'd have much rather they were going somewhere else entirely, too.

“I just want to see Metroplex, for Solus’ sake…” Windblade couldn't help herself mumbling as she fell into step behind Afterburner and Lightbright, with Nautica and Vertex behind her and Rattrap's own guards spreading out behind them. 

"Chill out, Windy," Lightbright whispered back to her. "We’re practically on vacation. Least you could do is try and enjoy it.” Of course that was all she saw this as; a chance to get away from Caminus, from the dull and ordinary back home. Windblade chose to stay silent as they echoed down the barren halls of the council building. Why was it so empty? Had the whole place been cleared for their arrival? It was immaculate too, every gilded surface shimmering with her reflection. It seemed Rattrap spared no effort in preparing for his guests, and the Chancellor said nothing as he lead them through the magnificent halls because he knew he didn't need to. The ancient walls and murals spoke for themselves; one showing the birth of Primus, one with his first battle with Unicron, another showing the creation of the Thirteen (and Caminus' most precious Solus Prime), and other events that not even Vertex would have known about. The timeline of metallic tapestries brought them to what looked like a dead end, before Rattrap's guards turned a mechanism and revealed the hidden gold door that stretched from floor to ceiling. Beyond it were stairs that led them downwards, into a far away light that Rattrap headed towards. 

Windblade didn't like how dim the stairs were, but she couldn't pause as they were herded down them. She looked to Chromia, expecting to see her eyeing the walls like they were about to cave in. But instead, the bodyguard had her optics on one of their escorts walking beside them.

“Ironhide, right?" she asked him, tilting her helm suspiciously when he didn't return her stare. "How come you look more like us than anyone else around here?”

Ironhide seemed to balk, before quickly shaking it off. The other guards were spaced out amongst the Camiens, and they didn't seem to pay notice to the exchange. 

“That ain’t none of your business, little miss," he told her. The voice made him sound like a bot who lived on Caminus' outskirts; the places that were built much later when living space first started running out, where bodyguards were mandatory. Lightbright was trying to ogle the conversation now, her optics telling of her namesake as they looked over her shoulder. And, not surprisingly, Chromia didn't flinch. 

“ _ Little _ ?" She scoffed with a hard drag of her optics over his towering frame. "Boy, I could bench-press you  _ and  _ your boss without even bending a strut.”

“Would like to see you try," Ironhide huffed.

“Keep talkin’ slag and I just might," she promised, while Windblade tried to keep her head down before Rattrap noticed- scrap, too late. One of his heads, the one on the right, was looking at them.  _ Peering _ at them, optics twitching like they were staring into a star. Yet Rattrap himself didn't falter in his step. How much of the other heads were really him… and how come no one mentioned how  _ weird _ they were?! It must have been some kind of deformity, one that you just tried to pretend not to notice. Which was a bit difficult, when it was staring right at you… hadn't that head been asleep before? She was certain it had, but it looked away just as she met its gaze. 

A good leader had to have optics on the back of their helm. Windblade never thought that anyone would take that literally. Though, Rattrap  _ must  _ have been competent to be able to command mechs like Rampage, and to have a whole gallery of relics from Cybertron's ancient history- a history that Caminus, the Mistress of Flame and the original Torchbearers had elected not to be part of for some reason. Only they and few others knew the truth behind the exodus, but the 'why' didn't really matter now. They had their own home, their own culture and customs, and the Cybertronians had theirs. 

Though, looking at the relics Cybertron had kept preserved all these years- each one with its own spotlight behind a thick window into its locked room- it was hard not to feel a little jealous. With names like 'the Immobiliser', 'the Apex Armor', 'the Requiem Blaster' and others that Windblade had been too overwhelmed to listen about, one had to wonder how Cybertron had not grown into an empire with so much power at its disposal. Maybe they knew not to be greedy? Or maybe this technology was  _ too  _ powerful to ever safely use, which was why it was locked away. The latter seemed like a tragic waste, though likely not as tragic as what might happen if the relics were ever needed. Had they  _ ever  _ been used, ever brought out from behind the giant door of the vault and into the light above? Windblade wasn't sure if she wanted to know. Not even Vertex, who had queries about everything they came past like she was a youngling at a museum, had thought to ask about that. Better to just admire how pretty they were than think about anything else. 

“And here lies our most prized relic.” Rattrap approached a cell at the end of the long, dusty gallery that looked more like a second smaller vault with its heavy steel gate. Through the gaps at the bottom of the gate, a red glow seeped through to lap at the visitors’ peds. This time the escorts kept their distance, and Rattrap alone walked toward the locking mechanism at the center of the gate. It opened as if from nothing more than his presence, immediately bathing him in that blinding red light that also came with a low, unchained hum. Like a spark, unveiled from behind the plating of its chamber. Once her optics adjusted to the glare, Windblade saw Rattrap beckoning them all to follow him into that ominous cell, empty except for a podium set in the middle of the floor. They obeyed yet still the escorts stayed behind, at the edge of the glow’s reach. This was something that Rattrap wanted to show off all by himself. 

“This,” he began with a grand sweep of his servo towards the podium, “is the great device that gave us safety from the stars. I give you… the Enigma of Combination.”

Windblade tried to look at the podium, fighting against the source of the light. It was red only at its fringes; near the center it was pure white, and only by stubbornly staring into that brightness did it eventually die down to reveal what it was masking. 

It was… well, to Windblade, it just looked like a metal box. It had a core of some kind of energy, but even then it might as well have just been a plasma storage unit or a tesla container. The podium itself was even shorter than Rattrap, likely so he could reach it without help. She tried to look to the others without looking rude, her hand over her optics as if to shield them from the glare, and they all seemed as unimpressed as her. 

“Is it like the Matrix of Leadership?” Vertex tried, feigning interest to the best of her abilities. Of course, feigning things was practically her dayjob, and thankfully Rattrap seemed none the wiser. 

“Haven’t heard anyone mention  _ that  _ in a long time,” he said with a somber chuckle that was echoed by his left shoulder. “Sadly the Matrix was lost to us long ago, though the Enigma is arguably even more impressive.”

“Oh really? What’s so great about it?” It was a scoff from Chromia, the first thing she’d said at all since entering the vault. No wonder it sounded so aggressive, when it had been building up in her throat this whole time. Not that Rattrap seemed to mind, or even notice.

“Take a group of two bots or more,” he said with a grand sweeping gesture over all of them, “no matter who they are, and the Enigma can fuse them together into a combiner. A _ gestalt  _ team.”

“‘Gestalt’...?” Lightbright sounded her confusion quietly, though she wasn’t the only one trying to puzzle out the word. Windblade had certainly never heard it before. 

“Yes.” Rattrap nodded so that the other two heads followed suit. “Thanks to the power given to them by the Enigma, they are able to combine their bodies and minds into a much larger being that’s even greater than the sum of its parts.”

And then, in a moment of pride for Windblade, it clicked. “Oh, like Victorion!”

Suddenly Chromia gave her a glare, while the Chancellor blinked at her outburst. “Pardon?” he asked.

Windblade tried to stifle her embarrassment behind her hand, coughing into her palm and looking away from Mia’s burning scowl. “I mean… we have a team like that on Caminus. We call them the Torchbearers, because they were among the first to leave Cybertron. They can combine to form a huge bot called Victorion.” She’d wondered at first why none of them had been chosen by the Mistress for inclusion in their envoy to Cybertron, but it seemed they were always busy offworld. They were more like Torch _ hunters _ nowadays, always looking for new places beyond Caminus to scavenge through for resources. 

“Without them,” Vertex chipped in, “we couldn’t have guided our way through the stars to the home we’ve known for eons. In a sense, they shone the light of pilgrimage for all of our Camien ancestors.” It was an opportunity for her to both show off her history knowledge  _ and _ piss off Chromia further, so of course she wasn’t going to let it pass. But why was Chromia so angered by them talking about the Torchbearers? It wasn’t exactly sensitive information. Maybe she just hated giving the Cybertronians anything at all. 

“I see…” Rattrap’s left head shook itself, like a petrorabbit waving its audial fins, and he had to make it stop with a hand. “Yes, well. Cybertron once had several of such groups, created by the Enigma.”

“What happened to them?” Nautica asked, who’d been taking notes on a datapad for both herself and Vertex. She looked up from it to see Rattrap’s response, but the Chancellor was left silent. He sucked in his prominent denta with a sigh, now only looking out of the edge of his optics. 

“There was a… well, that’s a rather dark chapter of our past.” His vents were tight as he inhaled, and he looked to the Camiens with a long-buried sadness. “My kind… you’ve probably noticed we look very different from what you might have been expecting.”

Just when Windblade thought she’d just been going crazy since they landed… she opened her mouth to add something, but with a look over at Afterburner it seemed they’d all decided once again to defer to duty of diplomacy to him. 

“We… didn’t want to be rude,” he said carefully, “but yes, that is true.”

Rattrap nodded once, a deep understanding carried through the motion. “We were called technorganics,” he revealed, clasping his claws in front of his chest. “A subspecies, almost, of ‘pure’ Cybertronians who looked more like you Camiens. When the first of us emerged from the Well of All Sparks, no-one was quite sure what we were.  _ We  _ didn’t even know.” He allowed himself a brief laugh at that strange irony. “We were more like  _ animals  _ than bots, and we couldn’t even take on traditional alt modes. And, at the time, that was enough for Cybertron to deem us… undesirable.” He lowered his helm once more, staring down at his clasped hands as if wondering if those old Cybertronians had a point after all. It was a lot for Windblade, for all of them, to take in. Even Chromia lessened her glare in the face of this revelation. Other than the constant hum of the Enigma before them, all went silent for some long nanoklicks.

“But... things have changed now?” Nautica eventually asked, with the same hope that the rest of them had. Rattrap looked up suddenly, as if his helm was being puppeted, and he nodded frantically.

“Oh yes, yes, those days are thankfully in the past. Now the planet is almost entirely technorganic in some way, thanks to generations of interbreeding and my own efforts to bring us equality.” His smile only became slightly forced now the longer he tried to hold it, while Windblade wondered what ‘interbreeding’ was. Something to do with the Well (that she apparently wasn’t supposed to mention)?

“Though, of course, when I was sparked… there were still those that felt strongly against us,” Rattrap admitted. “Even though we had a place on the council and a caste to ourselves, they didn’t want us around. They didn’t even want us  _ alive _ . That’s what I grew up dealing with. So, when I came of age, I set my sights on a seat in the High Council. I would become a Senator, more than just a token presence for my kind.”

“And then you became Chancellor,” Windblade said thoughtfully. 

“And then I became Chancellor.” This time his smile was much more genuine, compounded with a proud nod towards the Cityspeaker. ”I campaigned every stellar cycle, for what felt like a century. And, when the time came for Sentinel Prime- our previous leader- to retire, I was miraculously elected in his place. It took a long, long time to get this far, with so many sacrifices. But I look out at the streets of Technotropolis, of Kaon, and I see families; happy, peaceful, thriving families, and I know it was all worth it.” He looked beyond the Camiens now; down the length of the gallery he’d led them through, as if he could see through the building’s foundations to his people, his planet that he’d spent so long trying to redeem. To Windblade, it was like something the Mistress would tell them during those precious celebrations that only came once every few decades; like a Firewalk, or a Forging Ceremony. Each speech was preserved in Caminus’ archives, of course. She was tempted to look through them when she returned home, to see how similar the Mistress and the Chancellor really were. 

But for now, Windblade only felt content that Cybertron was truly not so strange after all. This was just what evolution and progression had made of it; a community formed from spilled energon and silenced glossas. Their looks were what they’d fought so hard for, their right to be born and to be alive even if they didn’t quite fit in anywhere else. And what must the Camiens look like to them; just walking reminders of the bots who had tried to exterminate them just a century ago? The ones who had survived the purge would surely see that, and those descended from them. Like Dinobot, perhaps...

“So… what happened to Cybertron’s old gestalts?” Vertex’s voice brought Windblade back out of her thoughts, where she always ended up lost while listening for Metroplex. Who she  _ still  _ had yet to ask the Chancellor about… not right now, though. Vertex had put him back into a somber mood with her own question.

“Ah... yes. That does not have such a happy ending.” Rattrap sighed, turning back towards the Enigma and its vibrating glow.

“Traditionally, our gestalts were our last resort for defense. They followed the orders of the Council, and were meant to protect Cybertron from any threats from outside. They were old; not so old as your Torchbearers, but enough so that they were… stubborn in their beliefs.” His shoulders sagged now, the heads upon them lying dormant. “So, when they found that a technorganic would now have the final say on giving them orders… they rebelled. Threatened to level entire cities if the decision wasn’t reversed. They more or less took Cybertron hostage, and demanded my head on a platter.”

“Heehhee, hey platter platter, heyyy platter platter!” It was a whining chitter that seemed to come from nowhere, a scratchy giggle that was silenced only when Rattrap smacked across his left shoulder. Was that the other head talking…?

“We tried to negotiate with them,” Rattrap went on, turning back around to show that his shoulder was now silent and scowling from the attack. “We tried to reason. We even tried to create our own gestalts with the Enigma, to fight back against them. But…” He pulled his glossa over his denta, hanging a hand in the air as if wondering what to do with it. “Our first and only attempt backfired quite badly. Luckily, I was the only one affected by it, as you can see from my two companions here. Apologies for their outbursts, by the way. We share a body, but they think for themselves.” 

So the heads were sentient after all… they really were watching everything. And they weren’t considered normal. Windblade wasn’t sure if she was relieved by that or not. She was more worried about being anywhere near the Enigma now, if it was capable of causing…  _ that  _ to someone who tried to use it. 

“In the end,” Rattrap went on, “the only option was to use force. We… we had to take them all down.” He gulped as he made his confession. 

“You destroyed them...?” Afterburner was the only one brave enough to ask him directly. Rattrap looked away, contemplating before shaking his helms.

“Not quite. To set an example and punish them for their selfishness, the leaders of each team were executed. The rest of them remain imprisoned to this day. Without their leader, they cannot form their gestalt, so thankfully they are no longer threats.” He couldn’t bring himself to smile about that. 

“That’s why Cybertron is so hostile to anyone who comes near, isn’t it?” Chromia asked, surprising everyone when it didn’t come out as a grunt or a growl. “Cause you don’t have combiners to protect you anymore?”

“Precisely.” It was a sad matter-of-fact, thinking of what had become of the once mighty Cybertron; once the hub of an empire, progenitor of their race, home of their creator, now not even capable of protecting itself from threats. If Caminus didn’t have it’s own sentient security force, at least it had nothing to give any would-be invaders.

But… Cybertron  _ did  _ have another form of protection. The one Windblade had come so far to find. The one who had mentioned Rattrap by name,

“But what about Metroplex?” she asked. “Surely he would be able to defend the planet from any threats?” Whatever the Chancellor answered, she could use it as a means to finally ask for access to the Titan. He offered a lopsided smile that didn’t quite match his heavy shrug.

“You would think so,” he said wearily. “But… he remains silent to our kind. Refuses to even power on, for any reason. Right now, he’s nothing more than a hollow shell sitting on the horizon. We attempt new ways to communicate with him through regular maintenance, but so far… nothing has worked.”

Windblade felt her cheeks burning, knowing she was close to finally seeing her Titan. But she opened her mouth a nanoklick too late, just before Nautica stole her moment from her.

“If I may ask,” the mechanic half-hid behind her datapad as if it would shield her from her own endless curiosity and Windblade’s glare, “what happened to the Well of All Sparks?”

Rattrap shrugged again. “No-one knows. Not long before the Gestalt Rebellion, it simply died. It birthed the last generation of pure Cybertronians, and then decided that there would be no more.” He somehow managed to sound whimsical while describing something that made Windblade’s jaw drop.

“Though… in a way, I suppose that’s a sign of Primus accepting us after all,” he went on. “Without the Well to produce life, the only way to keep our kind going would be to live side-by-side and raise our bond-born children together. You could say that the death of the Well was almost a blessing in disguise.”

Windblade didn’t know what he meant by ‘bond-born’, but…  _ that _ was what became of Primus’ lifeforce? It simply  _ gave up _ , too broken by what his children had become to bring any more into the universe? She had never considered herself as religious as some other Camiens, but to think of that harsh reality made her spark ache. Primus, their God, their protector from Unicron, creator of the Thirteen and the most revered Solus Prime, was dead once and for all. Cybertron was now nothing more than his corpse, and with no hot spot to birth more sparks how was the population supposed to sustain itself? Had they simply accepted their kind’s inevitable demise with sad knowing smiles? She remembered Scissor Boy’s reaction to being asked about the Well, remembered that he’d given it a different name before he fled from them. 

‘ _ The Well of  _ Tainted  _ Sparks…’  _ Is that what had become of it? Had Primus succumbed to a poison in his very core? And were the original Cybertronians, the ones who lead a genocide against their new siblings, the poison themselves? She wanted to ask about it, completely forgetting Metroplex for the moment- but just as the question was on her glossa, Rattrap clapped his hands.

“Well, I think we’ve been down here wallowing in the past long enough,” he announced, injecting enthusiasm into his vocaliser so that it hummed like the Enigma behind him. “Come, let’s get back up to the land of the living.” 

Windblade was at least grateful to be away from the Enigma, and the other relics who only Solus knew what they were truly capable of, as they were herded back into daylight. She noticed that two of their escorts, Ironhide and Inferno, were now nowhere to be seen. She’d been hoping to ask Ironhide a little about what he knew of Cybertron’s history, if he was really a ‘pure’ Cybertronian as he’d looked. But that was more Vertex’s area of expertise anyway. 

“We had no idea Cybertron’s history was so dark,” Afterburner was saying, as they made their way back through the building’s cavernous halls. “I’m sorry, Chancellor. I wish Caminus could have helped in some way.”

Rattrap inclined his main helm towards the mech, a sincere smile showing behind his sharp denta. “What doesn’t kill us only makes us stronger. And I’m glad that you came now instead of sooner, when Cybertron was no place to be proud of. Ah, yes.” Through new hallways, they now came to a grand sitting room. “This is a perfect place to rest.” He beckoned the Camiens to do just that, at any seat they wished. Chromia and Afterburner favored the stiff-backed ones close to the door, while Nautica and Lightbright happily lounged on the stretches of patterned plush. Vertex sat with her legs crossed while she looked over Nautica’s datapad. The only two who didn’t immediately sit were Rattrap himself, and Windblade. She decided to take the chance while no one else was trying to talk to him.

“So, Chancellor,” she began nervously beside him, about Metroplex...”

Rattrap’s eccentric right shoulder ogled her, as he turned to face her with a raised eyeridge. “What about him?” This close up, despite his stature, his teeth glinted like claws set into his jaw. 

“I think I could help you get through to him.” Windblade struggled with the urge to lean down so she could look Rattrap in at least two of his six optics. “I know how to speak to Titans, and Metro has been my assignment for a quite a few stellars now.”

Rattrap blinked, one set of optics after the other. “Assignment?”

“I mean, I was chosen to communicate with him. That’s what Cityspeakers do,” she explained. “We have the ability to talk to some Titans- those who are willing to listen, at least. Our home, Caminus, is a Metrotitan himself. He has ways to monitor other Titans throughout the universe, and we use those ways to keep watch of them from afar. I’m sure the Mistress of Flame explained that I want to check up on him personally.” She really had no idea what the Mistress had said about their visit, but surely she would have at least brought up suspicions about Metroplex. Unless she didn’t want to give them any time to hide anything...

“Yes, she did mention… something along those lines.” Rattrap nodded while avoiding her gaze, like he didn’t want to see her reaction to what he was going to tell her. “I don’t distrust that you  _ could _ help us, Windblade, but... I’m afraid Metroplex is currently undergoing crucial maintenance work. We can’t let anyone near him, lest they disturb the update processes and cause some unexpected reaction.”

Even though she’d already known that, Windblade felt her wings pull down her shoulders as they sagged. True, the state she’d seen him in on Caminus showed that Metro was in dire need of a reformat, but was the damage to him really  _ that _ bad? 

“Oh…so he’s not being used as residential space?”

“No one has been able to safely live within him for a very long time. That’s what this maintenance work is for, to try and make him fully functional again even if he must remain dormant. But it’s a very long and delicate process. If he does wake up, we have no idea what his reaction to… well, to our kind would be. If he rejects us, the consequences would be far more devastating than anything a gestalt team could do.”

“I see…” She tried, but it was impossible to truly mask her disappointment. Is that why she couldn't sense him? Because he'd been forced into dormancy, because she had come too soon or too late? Because he was just too  _ dangerous  _ to these poor people who had suffered enough under bots like her?

But... he mustn’t have been fully offline. He knew who Rattrap was. He had sent that warning about him. He knew something that he wanted to tell her, and only her. Which meant she had to find her own way to get to him. 

“I’m sorry that you came all this way just to hear bad news, Windblade." The Chancellor patted her wrist, which hung low enough by her side for him to reach. "But I hope I can make you and your friends’ time here worthwhile regardless.”

Windblade nodded, and once she started the motion she found it hard to stop. If she kept her neck moving, it was easier to muster up a smile. “Thank you, Chancellor. Even if Metroplex is unavailable, I’m still glad to be here.”

Rattrap inclined his helm deeply towards her almost like a bow, before turning to address the others who had made themselves comfortable. "I must go attend to something, but I will return shortly. Please, make yourselves at home.” With that he went towards the door, while Windblade finally let herself sink down onto something soft. If she wasn't able to do her duty just now, she at least deserved some rest.

“Hear that?" A hushed chitter, like the one she'd heard in the relic vault, came from the gap Rattrap left in the door. "Heehehehe, she’s  _ glad _ to be here, heheheeee!”

“Quiet!” The Chancellor scolded his wayward head once again before the door closed, and all his voices were hidden behind it.


	9. Chapter 9

They sat, and lounged, and talked, and waited. And as they waited, Windblade found it harder and harder to sit still. She replayed the Chancellor’s story in her head; like how Nautica and Vertex compared theories and added to their notes about what kind of place Cybertron was long after their kind left and long before they returned. She looked around the grand room, a mere microcosm of the elegance Cybertron’s ancient buildings boasted, and wondered if just a century ago this was the room where her ancestors had ordered all of Rattrap’s kind exterminated. She thought of how, after a few horrible and bloody mistakes, everything had now supposedly fixed itself. Supposedly... 

If that was true, then why had Metroplex sent her that warning? Why had he named Rattrap specifically with it? And why was the Chancellor trying to keep her away from the Titan…?

“Windblade?” Chromia noticed her standing up- to be expected, since it was her job to notice everything. Still, the Cityspeaker couldn’t help but feel irritated at always having to justify what she wanted to do when her bodyguard was around, like she was barely out of the hot spot. She knew that she wasn’t exactly following the recommended protocol for her position, but she could no longer sit still knowing- or, more accurately,  _ not  _ knowing- what was happening on Cybertron, to  _ her  _ Metrotitan. 

“I’m feeling a little trapped in here,” she said, easily coming up with an honest excuse. “Need to go outside for a while...”

“Absolutely not.” Chromia stood up as well, as if she anticipated having to drag Windblade away from the door. “One, you’re gonna turn into an ice sculpture out there. Two, I’m not leaving you by yourself for one nanoklick-”

“Mia, please.” It wasn’t often that Windblade felt like she had to argue with her protector, but then again it wasn’t often she was so far away from home for (as it was starting to seem like) no good reason. “I just… need some time alone to think. Just five klicks.”

Chromia blinked, before pulling her optics across the room like she was searching for something. The others weren’t really paying attention; the two nerds were still pouring over their notes, and Afterburner was focused on Lightbright (who in turn was focused on the intricate wall fresco that seemed to show a rendering of Solus and Megatronus). Then she pulled back to Windblade, and her authority withered under her own cautious glare.

“What if Rattrap gets back and you’re not here?” she asked.

With that, Windblade blanked. She wasn’t scared of getting into trouble, but... if Chromia was supposed to be responsible for her, it could be that she would be the one punished for it. Then again, if Mia herself knew that Windblade was trying to protect  _ her _ , then the Cityspeaker would definitely be the one to suffer for it. So she tried to swallow her guilt, for now. 

“Just say I was feeling sick,” Windblade offered. “Same thing that Maxima had. As long as I’m back eventually, that’s all he’ll care about.”

Chromia was not convinced- Pit, even Windblade found it a little hard to believe her own excuses. It was exactly what a spy would say if she wanted to snoop around. Which was exactly what she wanted to do, but she didn’t need to go around advertising it…

Eventually, Chromia lost the will to argue in a weary sigh. Or maybe her own curiosity and suspicion outweighed her need to keep Windblade safe. “Primus dammit, Wind… just don’t do anything I would do.” 

“You mean start a fight with the guards? I’ll try not do.” It was a joke that did little to lift Chromia’s spark, but there wasn’t much Windblade could do for that anyway as she slipped past her bodyguard. Mia watched her as she edged the door ajar, and Windblade was slightly surprised to find it unlocked. But once she pulled it open, she saw why locks weren’t needed. Rattrap had left a guard outside to keep an optic on them, and he was precisely the one Windblade didn’t want to go anywhere near. But Rampage was standing between her and the open sky and any chance of hearing her Titan, so she’d have to. 

He only glanced at her as she appeared through the door, but didn’t order her to go back inside. In fact, he looked away as soon as he confirmed she wasn’t a threat. So if they weren’t confined to the room, why was he there? Why  _ him _ , the most intimidating of the four?

With a gulp, Windblade mustered her spark to go find out for herself.

The sound of her own peds on the tiles, that were so shiny that it was like she was stepping all over herself, wasn’t enough to draw Rampage’s attention again; only enough to amplify her tension. She found herself in anticipation of the moment when he would snap his glare over to her, and bark at her through strings of saliva to back away. But it never came. She was standing right next to him, her helm only coming up to his chest, and he didn’t look down. His EM field felt like walking into a web of spines, each crackle scraping against her. It would have been enough to keep most bots away from him, a built-in warning for the blind. Windblade tried to let it wash over her as she coughed. “Excuse me… Rampage, is it?” She was fully aware that her vocaliser was squeaking, like it needed oiled. Rampage must have noticed too, but he didn’t glare when he finally met her optics- just as she tried not to flinch. 

“What do you want?” It wasn’t an accusation. Windblade had to keep telling herself that, so she didn’t run back to the safety of the room behind her. Primus, Dinobot hadn’t been this terrifying to be around...

“I need some fresh air,” she managed to get out. “Could I step outside for a short while?”

He grunted, though the jagged cage over his mouth didn’t move. “You can wait until the Chancellor returns.” He was definitely a mech used to bots obeying him the first time they’re asked, Windblade could have easily guessed that. But then that meant he didn’t have experience dealing with bots who argued back. She pulled her wings tight against her spine, contrasting it with a pitiful downward tilt of her helm (it’d be easier to face whatever came next without having to look). 

“Please, sir,” she tried. “My frametype overheats easily indoors. I’m used to being outside, with air in my wings…” Cybertronians had flying frames, she’d seen them herself. They must have been at least somewhat similar to her. But her gambit was met with silence, and after a few nanoklicks she dared a glance upwards… to find Rampage rolling his optics at her. 

“Typical flyers,” he growled, rolling his shoulder like the joint was getting cramped. “Fine, then. But I’ll be watching. Make it quick.” He started walking away, and Windblade quickly guessed she was supposed to be following him. There was an exit just one corridor away (which was probably the reason why Rampage even allowed her out), and he held it open to watch her scurry out into the fresh freezing air of Technotropolis’ plaza. Even if she’d only wanted a reason to get out and even if she was shivering, it  _ was  _ a relief to be out in the open. It felt like breems since she and the others had first met the Chancellor, and she couldn’t even remember the last time she’d been able to just take off and fly wherever she wanted, not since she’d left Caminus. She’d need to ask if there was some kind of airspace she could have, once they all returned to the penthouse.

But, for now... she’d made it outside. Now what? She inched herself down on a bench (careful of how cold the surface was), at the edge of green and glittering white sections stretched out in neat little grids between the plaza paths, and tried to think. There wasn’t much she  _ could  _ do with Rampage watching… and his weren’t the only optics on her. The area wasn’t bustling, but the Cybertronians walking around still weren’t shy about staring at her. Now she  _ was  _ getting overheated, steam practically misting off of her frame, even as she tried to ignore them by staring down at her thighs. What were they thinking when they saw her...? Did they just see her as an enemy, a reflection of the ancestors who tried to wipe them all out? What about bots like Ironhide, or the statue she’d seen when she came into the council building?

Whatever the answer was, she made herself stop searching for it. It wasn’t relevant to why she was really here. She should be thinking about Metroplex; how to convince the Chancellor to let her see him, if only for a few klicks. That’s all she’d need to talk to him, to ask about what his message really meant. And he could tell her everything, since only she would be able to hear it. Maybe that’s what Rattrap was afraid of...

“Uh, excuse me.” 

Windblade almost bit her glossa when she heard a voice so nearby. It definitely wasn’t Rampage coming to drag her back inside already, but she was hesitant to look up from her balled fists and face them… when she eventually convinced herself to get it over with, she found a familiar femme standing in front of her.

“You’re Windblade, right?” she asked, brown feathers brushing against each other from the chilly light breeze around her. Windblade had to take a moment to remember where she’d seen her before… the landing docks. She’d been with Rhinox. He’d said her name...

“Um, yes. You’re… Airazor?” She put it out as a question in case she was wrong, but the femme’s optics lit up around the jagged peak on her helm.

“That’s me.” Airazor flashed a smile, though she seemed unsure of it. Her feathers flowed behind her whenever she moved, like a fluffy afterimage wreathed in the mist that rose from her vents as her breath hit the cold air around her. “How come you’re here by yourself?”

Windblade didn’t really care if she was suspicious about seeing a Camien all alone. But she  _ wasn’t  _ alone, Rampage was watching her-

Wait… no. He wasn’t there in the doorway anymore. He must have disappeared back inside where it was warm, or moved to monitor from a different place? The door was closed, anyway, and Windblade would have vastly preferred knowing where his optics were watching from. For now though, she supposed she could assume she was alone. Apart from Airazor, of course. It was a little easier to pretend that she wasn’t a sightseeing attraction this way, at least. 

“Just needed some time away from the others,” she answered. “From... everyone, really.”

“Oh.” Airazor’s feathers settled flat against her frame. “Sorry if I’m bothering you-”

“No, not at all.” Windblade shook her helm, helping only a little to clear out her processor stack. “I’ve actually been wanting to talk to someone from around here. Someone who isn’t… I dunno, forced to follow a script around me.” It was to be expected that their trip around the capital would be carefully curated, but that only served to make her even more sure that  _ something  _ was going on. Maybe not just to do with Metroplex or the truth of Cybertron’s past, but something worth covering up... hell, even Rattrap’s story about what had happened in the past sounded rehearsed in retrospect. 

“Is that how all the officers sound?” Airazor seated herself beside her on the bench, numb to the cold, and Windblade happily budged over to make room. “Cause that’s how my uncle describes them, too. Rhinox, I mean.”

Windblade didn’t know what an ‘uncle’ was, but she assumed it meant that she was kind of student of Rhinox. Which explained why she’d been so adamant about carrying the boxes from the  _ Hermitian _ \- she’d wanted to impress him. She wondered where Rhinox was now, either somewhere in the Council halls she’d just left or maybe back at the landing docks, inspecting the ship. Since he wasn’t here, Airazor would do just fine for company instead.

“You have no idea.” Windblade couldn’t help but laugh at how the tedium of bureaucracy was exactly the same wherever you went- and at how ironic what she’d just said was. If anything, Airazor would have a better idea than her of what went on around her own home planet. “I swear, it’s like the Chancellor has programmed himself-”

“You got to meet  _ Rattrap? _ ” Airazor interrupted her with a gasp that had all her feathers standing on end. “Already?!”

“Yeah.” From her reaction, Windblade assumed that the Chancellor wasn’t the kind of leader who took regular audiences. “He took us around the Council Vaults-”

“No way!” Airazor was leaning forwards now, completely in awe of this foreigner she happened to find once again. “That place is strictly off-limits, even during open days!”

“Huh.” Windblade wouldn’t have assumed it was such a big deal from just being there. “Guess we really are special, then.”

Airazor let out a hiss from her vents that curled a finger of steam around her face. “I’ll say… what was it like in there?”

“Dusty. Stuffy. Feels like the walls are gonna close in around you at any moment if you stand still for too long.” Not to mention unnecessarily dark, just to make the place seem bigger than it really was. Though, Airazor wasn’t put off at all. 

“But, did you see… the Enigma?” She whispered the name of the relic, like it was something forbidden. Considering the role it played in the war between her kind and Windblade’s ancestors, maybe it was. 

“It’s a little underwhelming, honestly,” Windblade told her. “Other than the lightshow, it just looks like any piece of corner art you’d find back home.” And with that one word, she felt her spark sink. 

‘ _ Home…’  _ She wanted to go back. Solus, she’d only been on Cybertron a day and all she really wanted was to be in her own warm berth, in her own suite light years away. If she just got her job with Metroplex done, then they could leave. They could tell the Mistress whatever she wanted to know and be done with it all. She could actually do her  _ job  _ as a Cityspeaker for once, to  _ speak _ rather than just listen out for nothing.

“You missing it?” Airazor asked in a soft tone. “Caminus, I mean?”

“Mhm.” How could she  _ not  _ be missing it? Even if she spent her days behind a console, listening to a city’s sparkbeat, she at least could tell that the spark was still beating. She at least had her own place to return to, her own safe space for no-one else. A long sigh helped fight back most of the longing, for now. “But it wouldn’t be so bad if… if I could just do what I was sent here to do in the first place.”

“And what would that be?” Airazor balanced her chin on her hand inquisitively. 

“Speak to Metroplex,” Windblade answered. “That’s all I need to do, and then I can go home.”

Airazor blinked rapidly, and for a moment Windblade wondered if she even knew what Metroplex was. But that wasn’t what had her confused. “You mean… the fortress? You can  _ do _ that?”

Even though this was the third time she’d had to explain what she was, it was only now that Windblade fully accepted that Cybertron didn’t know anything about at all Cityspeaking. Caminus had really taken the whole art with him when he left. 

“Yeah, it’s like…” How to explain something that was just second-nature to her? How much was she even allowed to say? The Mistress clearly didn’t like any of the ‘new’ Cybertronians, but… frag it. Windblade saw no reason not to trust the one bot nearby who wasn’t ‘supposed’ to be around her. 

“They speak a language that some Camiens like me can understand. I was assigned to look after him back home. He sent out a message, but it was hard to make out what he was saying. So I came here, to hear him for myself. But Chancellor Rattrap won’t even let me near him.”

Airazor inclined her helm, and looked away for a moment. “Oh, that’ll be cause of the gas leak.”

“Gas?” Windblade blinked. Why would  _ gas _ stop anyone from going near him? He produced some natural vapors that came as a byproduct of being alive, but none of that would create a corrosive substance; not unless something was so seriously wrong that the monitors on Caminus couldn’t pick it up. 

“Carbon monoxide, apparently,” Airazor went on, as if the name of it would have meant anything to Windblade. “Metroplex started pumping it out not too long ago, so the whole place has been cordoned off.”

“Oh… Rhinox had told me he was just undergoing maintenance.” So had Rattrap himself, but she thought mentioning that just now wouldn’t be very tactful, not when this femme clearly had such a high opinion of the Chancellor. 

“That’s what everyone got told,” Airazor explained. “To stop panic from spreading. But, y’know, most people know about it by now anyway.”

“So is he being repaired?” That’s what Windblade asked, when she was really thinking ‘if it was such a big deal, why hadn’t Rattrap thought to tell her?’ 

“They’re trying to. But, with monoxide…” Airazor shrugged, and some feathers dislodged from her shoulders. “Well, the more organic you are, the more lethal it is. And since everyone’s got at least a little organic in them, no one really wants to risk going in to try and fix it. Not to mention, uh… the risk of waking him up.” She said it like she didn’t want to offend Windblade, but that wasn’t what the Cityspeaker was thinking over. 

“But he must have been awake when he sent me that message…” Had he only gone dormant after sending it? Was the leak  _ why  _ he had sent a message to her, the only one always listening? Why mention Rattrap, then? The questions kept clogging up her processor, choking out her logic unit. 

“Maybe you can ask him yourself why he’s flooding himself with gas,” Airazor suggested. “Can’t you just do it from here? You heard him all the way on Caminus, after all.”

“That’s because he used his own broadcaster to reach me, and cause we have a whole network of amplifiers back home. But I don’t have anything like that to talk to him. I need to be close enough to feel his EM field…” Windblade sank into her wings, counting up all the new problems on her fingers as they tapped against each other. 

And then, as two of them snapped together, came a solution.

“Airazor. You said that carbon monoxide is bad if you’re organic, right?”

The femme looked at her under a raised eyeridge. “Uh… yeah.”

“But  _ I’m _ completely mechanical. That means I should be fine, right?” Even as she said it, Windblade knew it was the key to finally seeing Metroplex- even if it had to be ‘unauthorised’, at least she knew that no one else would be around to stop her. Airazor didn’t look so convinced. 

“I’m… not so sure about that. Not sure enough to stake a life on it, at least.”

“I’m willing to take that risk,” Windblade told her, to Airazor’s disbelief. 

“You really need to speak to him that badly?” she asked. 

It wasn’t just a matter of getting to him. She had to know why she was brought here, why he’d chosen  _ her  _ to receive his message rather than someone much closer on Cybertron, why he felt like he couldn’t trust any of these technorganics. “Trust me. I do.”

Airazor looked away, and for a fleeting moment Windblade worried if she’d been a spy all along. But she looked back after a nanoklick, and the sheen over her optics was all steel. “Do those wings really work?” 

Windblade nodded, with slight confusion over why her wings  _ wouldn’t  _ be working. Then again, Airazor’s own didn’t look nearly big enough to lift up her whole frame… that was a theory that didn’t last very long, as Airazor suddenly activated her T Cog. Windblade’s question of what strange bots like these turned into was given an equally strange answer- the femme had morphed into something much smaller, something like the creatures that would fill the skies of organic planets. And, sure enough, she was hovering over the bench with the wings that were once on her back, now situated on either side of her new compact frame. 

“Then follow me.” The command came out as a chirp from her beak, and with a flap of her wings she took off into the open air. Windblade was too afraid of losing track of her to even wonder if she was still being watched as she transformed too. 

  
  


**xx**

"This better be damn important, Tarantulas. I made it  _ very  _ clear that I wasn’t to be disturbed while the visitors are here."

The scientist, as usual, only laughed at Rattrap’s annoyance as the Chancellor stormed into his lab. "Yes, yes, I'm well aware of that. But I doubt this new development will  _ disturb _ you. In fact, I think you'll quite like it." His hands were busy weaving an intricate web from glimmering strands of white, so he used one of the legs swarming around his back to hand off a datapad to the Chancellor. With little regard for the height difference between them, he held it out just over one of Rattrap’s heads, forcing the smaller mech to reach up to grab it with a deadly grimace. The anger was quickly displaced though, as a light of intrigue filled four of the Chancellor’s optics which were skimming through the tablet.

"I see…” Rattrap let his left head continue to pour over the datapad as his center turned to Tarantulas. “How long until mass production is possible?"

The scientist paused his weaving to curl his sharp lips in a proud grin. "At this rate, and considering my unmatched genius, I can have it all done in about two decacycles. Of course, I'll expect adequate compensation for my contributions."

"Of course,” Rattrap reluctantly agreed. “Ratbat will see to it." And then, as it tended to, his own other mind blindsided him as it gnawed at his control.

"Ask him nicely enough and he might even let ya' turn him into a  _ lab rat-bat,  _ heehehehe-!” The left head’s laughter ended in a choke as Rattrap flicked its ear with a digit. Yet no matter what he tried, it never wanted to shut up. At least it had mostly behaved itself around the Camiens. And at least he only had to deal with  _ one  _ extra voice, when the other was always sleeping. Small mercies. Small problems. He should have been grateful that was all he had to deal with, for now. 

"Oh, and Chancellor…" Tarantulas called him back as he was about to take his leave, looking away from his latest project to speak directly to his senior. He rarely ever did that unless he felt like his full attention was warranted. Rattrap prepared all three of his selves. 

"Have you thought any more about my proposal for the core?" the spider asked. “Our dear Shockwave’s notes had some very intriguing ideas for repurposing it.”

Rattrap forced his exasperation out through his vents, where it was safe to let it out. "I've told you, Tarantulas, there is  _ nothing _ down there. Nothing but a dead husk and empty tunnels. I'm not wasting my time _ or  _ my workers on any of it." It was called the  _ Tainted  _ Well for a reason, after all. The whole point of it was that no-one wanted to go near it. But Tarantulas, despite what he liked to think of himself, was predictable- predictably stubborn, at least. Even as the scientist let a pout show through the fangs lining his faceplate, Rattrap knew he wasn’t deterred at all. Not even Shockwave’s disappearance had been enough to do that to him.

"Technically they're  _ my _ workers, but…” The spider shrugged with all his legs, as if that would really be the end of it. “If you say so. It just seems like such a shame, letting all that space go to waste."

"Use it as a dumping ground or something, I don't care. Just don't blame me when you fall down it and end up on the other side of the planet."

Behind him, as he finally freed himself from Tarantulas’ lair, he heard the spider giggle. "As you command, dear Chancellor." The mighty doors closed on Rattrap’s shudder, as the revulsion spread across his spine up to where it split into three. He hated being near that spider. More than that, he hated that he needed the spider in the first place. Him and his daughter… where would  _ she _ be right now?

"Excuse me, sire."

The growl right next to him completely threw off his thoughts, the second interruption he’d suffered in just the last hour. He gritted his denta, and as he turned he was pleasantly surprised to find someone he could, at the very least, trust to do as he was told. 

"Dinobot. What are you doing here?"

The soldier must have sensed the Chancellor’s mood from how deeply he bowed. "Forgive my intrusion, sir, but I have something urgent to report. There’s been an unidentified flyer witnessed within Technotropolis airspace. We suspect it’s one of the  _ visitors. _ "

Rattrap felt every optic go wide, and the shudder multiplied all across his spine like a wave becoming a tidal storm. “What? When was this?!”

“About ten klicks ago. They seem to be heading for Praxus.”

No, not Praxus. There was only one thing on that trajectory that a Camien would be interested in… one Camien, specifically. 

She’d only been here a day, and she was going to ruin everything.

“Thank you for informing me, Dinobot. Ensure that her location is being tracked, and return to your duties.” 

Dinobot gave one more parting bow, and as soon as he was gone Rattrap activated his comm unit while walking the other way. “Rampage, where the Pit are you?!”

It took half a klick for his so-called lieutenant to answer, and each nano had Rattrap’s fury mounting ever more.  _ “Apologies, sir, I had to abandon my position. Transmutate’s spark is-” _

Of course, it was  _ always  _ to do with fragging Transmutate. He should have known better than to put Rampage in charge of watching the Camiens- Pit, the only reason he hadn’t had more guards in place was to not scare them into doing something drastic. Obviously, that hadn’t worked out at all. 

“What is it  _ now,  _ hm?” Rattrap hissed. “Palpitations? Conduit crash? Is the little spawn sucking the life out of her?” 

_ “N… no, Chancellor, but she’s having trouble staying awake-” _

“I don’t  _ care  _ what’s wrong with her!” Rattrap screeched, his spark now stuck at boiling point. “She can survive  _ one _ day without you latched onto her at every klick!” And then, in an instant, he was calm again. The steam was gone, hissing back through his vents. He usually wondered if Sleepy on his right helped with that, reigning himself back under control. With a sigh whistling through his teeth, Rattrap let the outburst sink in before continuing with cold certainty.

“When I give you an order, Rampage, I expect it to be followed. Need I remind you that your obedience is the only thing keeping that sparkmate of yours alive?”

Of course he never  _ needed  _ to remind him, but it never hurt to mention it anyway. Even it wasn’t entirely true. He needed Transmutate alive for long enough to retrieve her spawn- not that Rampage had to know. 

_ “...I understand completely, sir.”  _ The snarl was seeped into the comm line’s frequency.  _ “I apologise for my lapse in judgement.” _

Rattrap grinned- he loved not having to hide it. “Well, thanks to your  _ lapse, _ one of the Camiens is now flying loose around Cybertron.”

“ _ I see. I’ll have them found and brought in as soon as-” _

“Don’t bother. We know where she’s going. I’ll deal with it myself. And I’ll deal with  _ you  _ later.” He ended the line as his left twin started snickering, its reflection in the window in front of him bopping up and down on his shoulder.

“Daddy Ramp ain’t gonna live t’see his kid at this rate, heeheh.”

“He doesn’t need to. We might need to get rid of him anyway.” Technically he was talking to himself, but didn’t all great minds find best company that way? Even standing there in front of the window, with his city and his mirror self stretched out before him, he could almost convince himself there was actually a second person there. 

“Yeah, get rid of ‘em all…” The left one liked to amuse himself with their darker thoughts, and sometimes Rattrap himself found it hard not to laugh too.

“But first thing’s first,” he told his reflection, before staring past it to where he was sure he saw a speck on the horizon, flying away from him. “We have a little fly to squash.”


	10. Chapter 10

Even though she’d only said it as an excuse to Rampage, Windblade couldn’t help but be astonished at how  _ good  _ stretching her wings felt; even in this raw alien atmosphere, in pursuit of something that might turn out to be worth not knowing at all. She hadn’t been so long without feeling the wind she was named after, not since she’d first been learning to use her wings. The discomfort from the stinging breeze faded quickly as her frame became numb with delight. The joy, the freedom in the skies, the wonderful way Cybertron’s upper heavens turned into milky clouds that must have looked even more beautiful with stars shining through… she wondered what Airazor thought of it. 

Of course, she couldn’t ask with so much distance between them. She was surprised at how fast the other bot was in her new form- even if it was lighter and more streamlined, she didn’t have thrusters or jets like Windblade. But all she had to do was flap her feathered wings (yes,  _ flap _ , up and down like they were her servos) and she was shot forwards like a missile. Like the sky itself it was a mesmerising thing, watching someone travel so effortlessly, like gravity did not apply, was just as captivating. She was so immersed in Airazor’s dance through the wind that she didn’t even notice when they’d left the city entirely- not until Airazor started descending, hovering to a standstill on top of a tower. She was back to her bipedal form by the time Windblade met her, keeping a safe distance from the edge of the roof. She shivered violently; puffing out her feathers to ward off the cold, an effect which made her frame look almost twice as large.

With such crowded and loud surroundings, after just a few moments the Cityspeaker could no longer tell where’d they’d come from. It seemed like every single building was adorned in neon-piped signs, though most were thankfully disabled at this time of the cycle. Those that were switched on stubbornly flashed advertisements for fuel, gambling, and other vices too bizarre for Windblade to understand. From so high up, this part of Cybertron reminded her most of Caminus.

“Where are we?” she asked, sharing Airazor’s caution of going anywhere near the edge for a better look down. 

“Outskirts of Praxus.” Airazor gestured over the cityscape while its lights twinkled, only a hint of what it would be like when darkness fell. Then one of her digits formed a point, aiming away from the lights and towards a huge structure that dominated the other side of the horizon. “Metroplex is over there. Can you… hear him?”

Windblade only gave herself a moment to marvel at Metroplex’s size before she made herself focus; closing her optics, digging her digits into where her markings dripped down her cheeks, channelling all her processor power into understanding the air around her. Like how her frame would instinctively adjust her speed and trajectory while flying through the wind, her mind latched onto a wavelength that was so slightly familiar to her. It was empty, usually, but as she concentrated… a hum. A spark, its core so colossal that it could be heard from miles away by those who knew what to listen for. 

“Faintly.” Windblade sighed with meagre relief- but it was relief, nonetheless. He was alive, and awake in some way. Maybe he could hear her too, and he was just waiting for her to arrive. She turned to Airazor and bowed deeply, the most genuine gesture she’d made to any Cybertronian as of yet. “Thanks for getting me this far.” Then, suddenly, she realised what she was actually about to do. Trespassing on foreign ground. Pit, Chromia would be losing her mind by now wondering where the Pit she was. And if Windblade got caught, everyone else around her would suffer for it too. Especially the one who brought her here. “Are you sure you won’t get in trouble over this?” 

Airazor blinked, and tilted her helm. “Why would I?”

“Well, cause Metro is a pretty...  _ dangerous _ thing to be around.” From what she’d read about his capabilities, that was putting it lightly. “Rattrap isn’t gonna like me snooping around him all by myself, and if he finds out you brought me here…”

Airazor’s optics widened with realisation, but she only shook her helm. “Don’t sweat it. You’re just doing your job, right? But if you’re really worried, just keep your biolights off; that should help hide you from anyone who’ll ask questions. There might be a few other flying Maximals around too, but most usually stick to flying at night.” Then her face hardened into something serious once again. “Just... be careful in there. If you start feeling faint, or your vents get clogged-”

“Gas is the least of my worries right now,” Windblade assured her, with Metroplex finally in her sights. “Thanks again.” She transformed, not giving herself any time for second thoughts as she propelled through the air towards her city.

As she neared, she slowed her thrusters to get a better look. He looked exactly as he did in her old archives on Caminus, the records of their old home preserved exactly from when they left it behind. The runway-like foundations stretching far off the ground that were actually the city’s legs, the huge tower that formed his chest and housed the nuclear furnace of his spark. Even more intimidating than his sheer size were the missile launchers and armament arrays bolted down all over his plates. Dinobot hadn't just been trying to intimidate her; he really  _ was  _ a fortress. And, unlike other weapons of war, he had a say in what battles he would take part in. He could deactivate all his systems with just a thought, impossible to take over through sheer force. Like his larger brother Caminus, he lived for peace, and would only fight in pursuit of it.

So what had really gone wrong with him that Rattrap wanted to hide? What was making him refuse to have anything to do with the new state of Cybertron? 

Windblade circled around the city’s tower, keeping a fair distance just in case any warning system was still in place, until she spotted something propped open. On the edge of the metal scaffolding around his chest, there was what looked like a maintenance hatch. Caminus had those too; closely guarded tunnels that lead deep into his internals and which shimmered with his spark’s heat. The access restrictions meant less space within the Titan for living in, which lead to all the crowded space on top, but it was a small price to pay for the security of knowing the Titan himself was left alone.

Knowing all that, Windblade wasn’t sure if she wanted to go anywhere near it… but the Chancellor hadn’t left her with much choice. She slowed her descent, buffeting around the very edge of Metroplex’s territory, circling in slowly so she could escape if anything seemed amiss. But, miraculously, there were no guards or sensors or even warnings that she could see around the city as she flew over it. No lights on, no one home. The whole place really was deserted, at least on the outside. Perfect for her. 

Once she landed on the scaffolding, crouching behind the railing to stay out of sight, she reached out to Metroplex again. The humming was louder now, but that was still all that came to her. She couldn’t even feel a draught of heat from the tunnel entrance; nothing but Cybertron’s own chill all around her. 

So that was it, then. If she wanted to talk to him, to  _ hear  _ him, she’d need to go right to his spark. And the first step to getting there was right through this hatch. 

‘ _ Chromia is gonna kill me when I get back…’  _ That was assuming she didn’t get caught, and that the Chancellor was as merciful as Airazor thought he was. Well, Windblade supposed that wasn’t so far-fetched. Even with how isolated Cybertron kept itself, surely they knew the concept of ‘diplomatic immunity’. But if they didn’t… her servo went to the hilt of her sheathed sword. She had a right to defend herself if necessary. And if Rattrap really wanted to keep the likes of her out, he’d have told her himself about all the poisonous gas choking out her city. 

Speaking of… though she was confident she’d be fine, Windblade took a moment to check her vents. Her systems found no irregularities or strange particles, just fresh foreign air… maybe the leak was deeper inside. She kept Airazor’s advice to the front of her mind, helping banish the doubts that would otherwise settle there, as she ventured inside the dim tunnel ahead.

All her briefings about Metroplex had never gone into what went on inside- at least, nothing that wasn’t related to his spark and mind. She supposed no-one had ever anticipated that she’d even be near him, let alone need to traverse his internal structures. He was a Titan meant to house bots (even if he so far wasn’t allowed to), so she assumed he wasn’t that different from any other urban site. He’d have disposal chutes, electrical substations, maintenance vents- like the one she was in now, just wide enough that she didn’t have to crawl so long as she pinned her wings back. Really, the only real difference between him and a dead city was the vibrations in the walls, the steady beat of his core keeping everything going. Could he feel her walking around inside? Did he know it was  _ her _ , his Cityspeaker? Windblade hoped so- she had no idea what to do if he didn’t recognise her, or what  _ he  _ might do. He was designed to defend himself, after all; no matter the cost...

She reached the end of the duct, and found herself dropping down onto a walkway hanging over a long drop to gigantic and silent cooling fans. There was a dull clang on the metal as her peds hit, and she froze. But after a klick, no one came running towards her. She checked her vents again, and still found no poison in them. She’d only know for sure she was safe if her HUD didn’t suddenly explode with warnings, but for now she felt brave enough to move on. She’d just need to remember which way she came from; but with how dim Metroplex was without any lights, it would be too easy to get lost-

“Aha!” With a small gasp of realisation, Windblade reached past her sword sheath and into her subspace. Old Speaker habits died hard- she’d completely forgotten about the emergency pigment she always kept on hand, for touching up her ceremonial markings (they were supposed to be permanent, made from the energon of Caminus himself, but over time they always faded. She liked to look her best in case the Mistress ever came calling). She’d always cursed how it would glow in darkness, making her look like some kind of neon-decked dancer at night, but now it would work perfectly for tracking her way through Metroplex. She just hoped Metro himself wouldn’t mind, since it was technically graffiti… but the ends justified the means. That was one of the Mistress’ own tenets, after all. 

She popped open the pigment canister just enough to dip a digit in- with no brush on hand, she’d need to improvise. When she pulled her digit back, she found it surrounded by a familiar red glow. This far from home and in such dim surroundings, it was actually comforting to streak it across the floor and know that at least some part of her would be left on Metroplex before she had to leave him. Its glow seemed to brighten right before her optics, and as she looked away she found that her own markings were glowing too. They were reacting to something- to Metro? Did he know she was here now? She tried to listen for him, taking small steps along the walkway, but still nothing came… nothing from him, at least. There was something else, though. A faint muttering nearby. Someone else here with her. 

She stopped herself from jumping back up to the maintenance vent, but kept her wings flat against each other and a hand on her blade as she slowly stepped towards the sounds. The walkway lead to a door that- thankfully- opened silently as she approached, onto another platform that overlooked a huge stretch of refinery space. It must have been some kind of inhouse fuel processing area, away from the habitat suites. She made her way slowly around it, traversing over the barren space and wondering why anyone living inside a Titan would need  _ more  _ energy than what he could provide himself. Then the muttering grew louder, sounding like it was coming from right below her, but as she was about to chance a glance over the platform edge-

“You’ve been working on that wall for  _ three fragging breems,  _ Hook, how much longer is it gonna take!? Other people need to use the brush too, y’know!” Windblade ducked down too fast to see where the mech had came from, crouching frozen behind the platform railings. With her spark suddenly pounding in her audios, it took great effort to focus them onto the other voice that came from below. 

“What have I told you about  _ barking  _ at me like that? You’ve completely ruined my concentration, now I need to start over!”

“I’ll ruin more than that if you don’t GET A FRAGGIN’ MOVE ON! I WANNA GO HOME ALREADY!” 

“Will you two just shut up and behave!” Now a third mech had joined the fray, sounding as exhausted as Afterburner when he had to stop Lightbright trying to have a drinking contest with Maxima. “Primus, you’re worse than Mix trying to argue equations with that spider freak.”

There was a growl, as Windblade tried to inch her way forwards on her knees. “That ‘spider freak’ is the one who’s givin’ us our energon, Haul, so don’t fraggin’ call him that around the slaves!”

“Pscht, like they’re listening to anything that isn’t programmed in. He has better things to do than turn  _ every _ husk into a spy.” 

Windblade could see stairs ahead, leading in a switchback down to the ground floor where the mechs were. That clearly wasn’t an option for her, so she made a plan to go back the way she came and wait somewhere safe until they left-

Then, as she was trying to turn herself around without standing up, the platform disappeared below her. No, it was still there- she could feel the cold steel under her palms. But she was seeing  _ through  _ it, right down to the bottom where the mech Hook was crouching. It was some kind of… ultrasonic vision, each moving edge below her outlined like a skeletal mesh. Like her optics had flicked some kind of switch, and suddenly she could see through walls. She couldn’t see details, but she could make out the shape of each individual bot and what they were doing. Hook looked like he was painting across the floor (just like she’d been doing with her pigment), and the other two stood together not far away, one of them shoving the other on the shoulder. 

“And how d’you know that, huh?” he spat. “You  _ volunteer _ to be one of his experiments?”

His friend scoffed. “Please. I just have common sense, unlike the rest of you. Speaking of; Hook, what the Pit  _ are  _ you doing?”

Hook paused his work and looked back at the other two. “What does it look like?! I’m adding some  _ flair  _ to this dreary block of steel that calls itself a city.”

Now both of them scoffed in unison, the one thing they were able to agree on. “As if anyone is even gonna see it. Once they’re in here, they’re not gonna be admiring the scenery.”

“Well I’m not doing it for  _ them _ , I’m doing it for  _ me _ .” With that, Hook went back to his creation. One mech behind him shook his helm. 

“Scavenger’s got a brush you can borrow, Bone. Let’s just leave  _ Daedalus _ here to his work- we’re almost done here anyway.”

The other cracked his neck cables, and started following his friend across the refinery floor with a mutter. “We damn well better be… three vorns of bustin’ our afts for this slag...” 

The strange see-through vision was fading now, thankfully. Windblade would think about what the Pit just happened later. She knew which direction the mechs were heading to, so she let herself glance over the platform to get a proper look at them as they retreated. She could only see the back of them, but they didn’t look like the kind of Cybertronians she’d come to expect. Which proved her theory about mechanicals being immune to the monoxide gas, and explained how only they would be allowed here. But  _ why  _ were they here? Overseers for the maintenance work, perhaps? If there were any drones walking around doing the work, Metroplex wouldn't be able to sense them if they didn't have sparks.

Whatever the reason, it wasn’t part of Windblade’s mission. She crawled on to the end of the walkway, while Hook hummed away oblivious beneath her. 

Knowing now that she wasn’t alone in here, she opened the next door only an inch before sliding through the gap, curling her frame into a tight ball, like she was trying to turn into something like Airazor’s petite alt-mode. That was how she went on; ducking low and sliding soundlessly across the floor with the tips of her peds, trying to find her way into Metroplex’s core. She left only a smudge of glowing pigment wherever she went, enough to catch her optic if she happened to find herself backtracking. And as she smeared it, the red seemed to glow even brighter. Her cheeks matched, competing with the light of her own optics and forcing her to smother them with her hands. If anyone saw the light leaking from her, they’d know she was here. Why the Pit was her own body trying to sabotage her!?

Unless…

_ ‘Caminus’ energon can sense his own kind,’ _ Windblade reasoned. _ ‘It’s getting brighter because I’m getting closer.’  _ That was it.That  _ had  _ to be it. All she had to do was follow where the light took her… this time when her digits scooped up the dripping pigment, she stroked it over her palm and shielded it with her other hand. It was like a torch- though, if she tried to compare herself to the Torchbearers, she’d be bordering on blasphemy- cupped in her grip, and she kept it close to her chest like a tiny spark as she crept ever further through Metroplex’s barren dark halls. 

‘ _ I may not hear you, Metro,’  _ her mind echoed, _ ‘but I know you’re there. I’m coming.’  _ She fed that mute promise into the chasm between her and the Titan, the one that had been opened and left empty for so long. But she could feel the distance closing, the crack slowly healing over itself like an open wound. A tiny sliver of warmth too, though that might have just been her own spark pounding in anticipation. She was getting closer. Everything around her was getting darker, or maybe it just looked that way because of the blinding glow from her face and her hand. She must have looked like a beacon from every corner and branching hall she came across, which made it all the more vital that she hurried before someone spotted her. 

And then, with a frantic stumble through the first door she could see and push open, she almost went offline. There was a feedback loop so intense, a burst of static across her mind that almost shut her whole processor down, something disorienting and hurting and confusing that all she could do was curl into her knees and hold herself and wait for it to leave her alone, leave her so she could wake up on Caminus and know the whole thing was a dream-

Then she blinked. She was staring at the floor. Blinked again, and now she was staring at Metroplex. His brain. His spark. Some kind of fusion of the two, transformed into a huge thrumming supercomputer that filled the entire chamber. It was easily as big as Victorion herself, even bigger if there was more to it that she just couldn’t see.

Windblade gulped, a sound that she couldn’t even hear over the hum of greater life all around her. Compared to Cybertron, the heat here was stifling. She couldn’t move anything, except for one servo. She reached out the hand, the one covered in Caminus’ diluted energon, towards the ethereal core, red and white light blinding together. And the lingering static in her mind, the piercing fragments of lost sound, finally coalesced into words that bridged across the chasm between City and Speaker. 

_ “Windblade... my Speaker. At last. I’d hoped it was you. ” _

She had only heard his voice once before, only splinters of it frayed by lightyears of signal decay, yet she knew it was him in an instant. And when she did, she was given another bright skeletal vision. This one was of Metroplex himself, his hidden face. It was hard to tell through the X-ray filter, but she thought he was smiling. 

“Yes, Metroplex! It’s me, I’m here!” She heard herself choke on her own voice, which was now as distinct as Metro’s own in her mind. She was here, and he was here, and he was  _ talking.  _ He  _ knew  _ her! She hadn’t just been looking at a blank screen all this time…! The gratitude was enough to make her sink down to her knees, still holding her stained hand to the casing of his colossal spark. Through her palm she felt him ebbing towards her, like he was actually there to hold her hand. That helped her realise that he’d been helping her get here all along, using whatever frail link they’d had to let her see through his walls and make sure no one would stop her. 

_ “You are well, _ ” he said, and he sounded as relieved as she felt. _ “You weren’t seen?” _

“No- I-I don’t think so, at least.” Windblade forced herself to exhale, to calm down before any of her excitement made her Titan worried. “I got your message, and-”

_ “Message. The warning. The summons.”  _ Suddenly Metroplex became serious, like Airazor had done. When Windblade closed her optics, she found that he was no longer smiling. This was the moment of truth. 

“Y...Yes, that one,” she went on. “I heard it, and I brought it to my leader, the Mistress of Flame, a-and she told us to come here and-”

_ “Too late.” _

For a moment, Windblade felt the tether to Metroplex almost slip away from her. “What...?”

_ “Too late,”  _ he repeated, and his sigh could have levelled all of Praxus around him. 

“What do you mean? I don’t understand…” It had only taken them a vorn to go from Caminus to Cybertron, just a cycle after she’d received his transmission. 

_ “Five centuries, twenty six stellar cycles, three vorns, fifteen solar cycles, seven breems, twenty six klicks, fourteen nanoklicks. You are too late.” _

Five  _ centuries _ ? What the Pit…? Had Nautica pulled them through some kind of time warp or something? Or was the Titan really just as broken down as his reports had said? 

The whole journey to get here… was it all just because Metro had lost his grip on reality? Windblade shook her head, squeezing her optics shut-  _ no _ , he was here, he was speaking and coherent, but why the Pit wasn’t he making any Solus damn  _ sense _ ? 

“Metroplex, just... tell me what the message was,” Windblade pleaded. “I can’t help you if I don’t know-”

_ “Windblade cannot help,”  _ Metroplex told her so bluntly that it was like being clubbed across the head- or, rather,  _ inside  _ her head. _ “Message is irrelevant. Too late. Cybertron is lost.” _

Windblade’s hand formed a fist against his core, and she didn’t hide her frustration as it came through in a grimace while coolant dripped down her servo. “What does that  _ mean _ , Metro? How is it lost?”

_ “The rat. The organics. The dead prince.”  _ He recited the list, and then kept repeating it like he was stuck in a recursive loop. Windblade tried to find a way to break through it. The organics, she knew about; the ‘dead prince’, she’d never heard of; but the rat...

“Rattrap? You mentioned him in your transmission… what do you know about him? Who is he?”

He stopped in the middle of a word, his subroutine interrupted. After the pause, he launched into a new one. “ _ The rat is the plaguebringer _ .”

She was about to ask him what the ‘plague’ was. But she only managed to open her mouth before she felt something ice-cold pressed against her neck. 

“Don’t move.”

The warning broke through her trance with the Titan, and her optics snapped wide. She was still on the floor, her legs underneath her, and from the floor she could see an abundance of other legs all around her; clawed toes that would have rapped against the floor as they came near. But she’d been so immersed in Metroplex’s mind that she hadn’t even heard them. She only dared move her neck enough so that she could see their faces. She recognised Inferno, the one holding the barrel of the blaster to her neck, but the others were just anonymous scowls full of fangs. Other guards under Rattrap’s purview. She swallowed her fear- as much of it as she could, at least.

“I... can explain,” she croaked, “I was just-” The blaster at her neck knocked against her helm to send her falling down sideways, and she was sprawled helplessly face-down when the guards surged upon her. Wicked talons grabbed one wrist, then the other, forcing them together as a thick set of cuffs were clamped down. She was dragged upright by her shoulder, two bots flanking her as she fought and squirmed to break free of their grip. But the session with Metroplex had completely drained her, and even if she was fresh out of recharge these bots were easily twice as heavy as her airborne frame. 

“Windblade of Caminus,” one of these vile brutes recited over her protests, “you are under arrest for trespassing and conspiracy to commit terrorism. You will be taken back to Technotropolis to stand trial, and your cohorts will be taken in for questioning.”

Terrorism?! How the Pit did they get that from her talking to her Titan? But that wasn't what shocked her the most. Just as she was being detained, her friends were likely being captured as well, all because of her...

“Leave them alone! They didn’t do anything wrong! I didn’t-!” Shrieking as she thrashed her servos, she tried to move her wrists to the hilt of her sword- if she could just pull it free, she could get them all away from her but, dammit, the cuffs were in the way-! 

“Save your vents for the trial,” a voice said, one that took a frenzied moment for her to recognise when it was mired in disappointment. “They won’t be any use here.”

Windblade yanked her helm around, and saw Rhinox glaring at her as she was dragged away from the Titan’s heart. Why the Pit was he here?! He was just standing there, letting her be treated like a common criminal! 

“Metroplex!” In desperation, with nothing else she could possibly do, she tried to fight her way out not with her servos, but with her mind. Metroplex was listening and watching, but they both knew there was nothing he could do. Nothing, except answer her last question.

_ “The rat is the plaguebringer,”  _ he told her. _ “The plague is his kind.”  _ Then the light of his spark disappeared through the door as she was pulled through it, and all she heard was a far too familiar silence.


	11. Chapter 11

Windblade said nothing on the long journey back to Technotropolis, flanked by bristling fangs and claws. She would have put herself offline during it if she could, but Solus only knew what these creatures would do to her if she let her guard slip. 

That was all they were to her now. Creatures. Just like the Mistress had called them. They were treating her like a  _ criminal  _ just for doing her job, so why should she treat them any more with respect? Surely the matter of the Chancellor blatantly lying about the state of Metroplex was the real crime here. After all, if there really  _ was  _ poisonous gas inside him, how the Pit did a whole security detail get inside to arrest her? She would have loved to hear Rhinox try to explain that, but the mech wouldn't even look at her. And every time she tried to work her vocaliser, she was silenced by a startling shock from her stasis cuffs. Minor enough that it wouldn’t leave any evidence, but strong enough to deter her from making herself look like anything other than a broken prisoner. 

So, as they patted her armor seams to make sure no weapons were hidden away and wrenched her sword from its hilt, she stayed silent. For her own sake. For the others, too. They wouldn't go quite so easily- Chromia certainly wouldn't, at least. That was what she’d thought, before she was thrown into a cell right next to the bodyguard with her wrists still bound together. As soon as the energy shield snapped down in sizzling bright bars of light, Chromia made herself known. 

"Windblade, what the Pit did you do?!" The Speaker had never heard her bodyguard sound so furious, not even when someone once spray-painted pink on her armor. 

"I just…” Windblade gulped, hoping no one could see her shrinking back against the cold wall. “I… I went to see Metroplex."

A sound of disgust suddenly ripped out from the cell directly across, as the shape within suddenly sat up. “You and fragging  _ Metroplex _ !” Lightbright cried out. “That’s all you care about! Well congratulations, Windy, you got your wish, and got us all locked up for it! Are you happy?!”

Windblade knew it was all because of her, of course she did. But hearing it said with such venom made the guilt all the more unbearable. 

“I didn’t mean… I-I was only-” Her meek excuses were nothing against her fellow Speaker’s diatribe that floated over to her cell. Then, suddenly, it ceased. 

“Lightbright, shut it,” Vertex called out from somewhere unseen, shocking everyone with such rare vulgarity from her. If Afterburner was there with her, not even he spoke up to defend his Speaker against it. After a nanoklick for effect (of course she’d be the master of dramatic pauses) Vertex said, “Windblade, what was he like? Metroplex, I mean.”

Being dragged away from him and into custody was such a blur that Windblade hadn’t even had the chance to process anything, not until now. And now she did so, with every word she said. 

“Awake. He… I spoke to him. He told me I was too late.” Five  _ centuries  _ too late...

“Too late for what?” Nautica asked for both herself and Vertex. As a scientist, she would always ask the questions hardest to answer. It was difficult to tell where she was put in the cell block, but she seemed to be on the same side as Lightbright.

“I don’t know…” Windblade sighed, sinking to the floor and curling into herself to preserve her frame’s heat. What wouldn’t she give to still be in Metroplex’s chamber- not just for the warmth. Her modules were a mess of danger signals and warnings, as messy as her own knowledge of what the Pit was really going on with Cybertron. She tried to untangle the wires in her processor, while awaiting the fate of herself and her friends.

Rattrap was a plague. There was a dead prince. She didn’t know what to make of any of that, so she didn’t think about what Metroplex had said. Instead she thought about what others had told her about him. 

“The Chancellor had told us he was going through maintenance and told everyone else he was venting out poisonous gas... but the air inside was all fine. And there were others in him, too. They didn’t look… technorganic, they looked like _ us _ .”

“So he was lying? Big surprise.” It was Chromia who spoke this time, sounding slightly less enraged now- though her scowl was still audible, as it deformed the words leaving her vocaliser. 

Of course the Chancellor was lying, they’d suspected he would be since the beginning. The question to ask was, what was he really trying to hide? If Metroplex was really the source of some awful secret, why not put more security around him? Why let her go out of sight, so she could slip away in the first place?

“I think…" Windblade started to admit, "Rattrap wanted me to go to Metroplex.”

“Oh  _ suuuure _ ," Lightbright drawled, her usually tiny voice swelling in the close quarters of the cell block. "He  _ wanted  _ you to go, so it’s really all  _ his  _ fault we’re stuck here-!”

“I’m serious, Light," Windblade protested. "He could've given me the ‘poison gas’ excuse himself and I’d probably have never thought about going to Metro. But he and just about everyone else said it was just maintenance… I think he knew he’d find me there. So he could use my presence to get us all locked up.”

At that, there was a zap as something collided with one of the energy barriers, and the sharp tang of ozone as whatever had hit the beams had its particles singed. Windblade flinched, though the impact hadn’t come near her cell. It was from Lightbright’s, who stood up straight just inches away from the deadly barrier, cradling one of her cuffed hands. Trails of smoke curled up from her fingers and the glow from her cage bars cast a light on her face. The expression she fired at her fellow Cityspeaker was not at all bright. 

“Y’know what I think, Windblade?” she grated out. “I think you got so obsessed over this fragging Titan that you just couldn’t help yourself and now  _ we  _ all have to pay the price for it!” She slapped her intact hand against her chest, where her spark’s EM field was so frazzled that Windblade could feel it across the gap between them. “Me and Hot Shot, at least we did as we were told! We didn’t  _ need  _ to go and find our own Titans cause what we do, what  _ they  _ do, it DOESN’T FRAGGING MATTER! We did what we were told, and that was enough! But not for you,  _ noooo _ , you just  _ had  _ to go and one-up us all, just  _ had  _ to stand out, all just to prove  _ something  _ that no one else gives a slag about!”

Windblade was as far back against her cell wall as she could possibly go, her wings squashed flat against her spinal strut and shivering from the chill, yet she felt herself shrinking further as if she could merge with the steel itself. 

Had she really been so selfish? She’d thought that doing her duty would help  _ everyone _ , cause then they could go home, but… really, she was the only one who wanted to know what Metroplex had said. No-one wanted to be here, and the Cybertronians certainly didn’t want them around either. She was the only reason they had to come in the first place. She should have just come alone, if at all, not even with Chromia by her side. 

Right now, shivering in her cell, all she could do was agree with her so-called friend- because Lightbright was right, after all- and hope that it would placate her. But another voice, one that had stayed silent, made itself apparent before Windblade could move her glossa.

"Lightbright, will you just  _ shut up!  _ You're not helping!” Afterburner was not shy about barking such an order to his Speaker, and he had the vocaliser to make it carry all the way past her cell and into whatever lay beyond their tiny prison world. Once again Lightbright was shocked mute, and scurried back into the shadow of her cell as her bodyguard’s sigh trembled in the walls. __

“It doesn't matter whose 'fault' it is,” Afterburner said hoarsely. “Windblade's right. The fact is that these freaks were just itching for an excuse to throw us in jail. Any of us could have stepped out of line." He’d clearly given up the diplomacy charade; with no reason to mask it anymore, his contempt ran as deep as Chromia’s. And everyone went silent, even the anxious Lightbright, with the truth that their very arrival had started a ticking time bomb that could have gone off from even the slightest disturbance. If there was no way to avoid it, then at least Windblade had gotten something out of it. Something meagre and spark-wrenching and only more confusing than what had brought her here to begin with, but at least it wasn’t nothing.

“...Where  _ is  _ Hot Shot?” Nautica asked, after some long lonely klicks. “And Maxima, and Velocity?” As she said the names, no other voices piped up to answer- but a sound did. A rusty whine as the door to their cell block was pulled aside, scraping against the floor as a new arrival was dragged inside. The captors never walked past Windblade’s or Lightbright’s cells, so they only saw the jagged shadows of their presence. But Windblade could hear the thump of the new prisoner’s body being thrown into the cell next to hers, feel it vibrating through the wall against her back. Then a sting of ozone in her vents as the energy gate flared into place, and muffled groaning as the guards left with no sound other than the door roughly closing behind them. 

Windblade’s newest neighbour retched, and there was a clang as they rolled around their accommodation in a panic. For an awful moment, she feared that it was Airazor; captured and detained for helping Windblade get to Metroplex in the first place. After all, they'd caught almost everyone else she knew. 

“Ugh.. h-hello?”

Everyone recognised the voice, but only one managed to call out to her first. “Maxima! It’s Afterburner!” His relief was contagious, despite how fragged they all still were. “We all got arrested too. What happened? Where’s Velocity and Hot Shot?”

Maxima kept coughing, as if she was trying to purge out what was left of her poorly-timed hangover. Though… had she really even drank that much last night- that night that already felt like a vorn ago? This was a femme who could keep up with mechs twice her size at a bar. It would have taken far more than she would have even been allowed to make her processor’s logic too fuzzy to handle. Had they  _ poisoned  _ her, to separate them and make them all easier to capture? Obviously it hadn’t worked as intended, if Hot Shot and Velocity weren’t in cells too. Solus, if the medic  _ was _ here maybe she could have made some sense of it all...

“They got away,” Maxima revealed, confirming Windblade’s hopes. “I… I covered their escape. Don’t know where they are now. More importantly is, where the Pit are  _ we _ ?”

“Ferromax Detention Center,” Chromia answered. “I saw it on a sign, while I was kicking someone’s chin up through their processor.” She was too disensparked to sound proud of it, and she didn’t offer anything else she might have seen while she was busy trying to start a war. 

“What are they gonna do to us?” Even in such cramped surroundings, Nautica’s voice sounded miniscule in comparison. Fear had shrunk it down to an iota that was desperate to not be noticed.

“They can’t do  _ anything  _ that would hurt us,” Vertex reassured, as confident as if she was on stage. With the way things had turned out, this whole thing sure felt more like a play or a vid than something actually happening to any of them. “Rattrap must know that,” she went on, “else the Mistress will have this place burned to the core when we don’t check in. Even so... ” She didn’t let her skepticism emerge any further than that those two bleak words. 

“Speaking of the Mistress,” Nautica added, “shouldn’t we at least be allowed to comm her? To let her know what’s going on?”

“Tried that,” Chromia huffed. “They got the quantum transmitter away from me. Only other way to talk to her is back on the ship, and it’ll take two decacyles for any message to reach her. Nothing she can do to help us.”

“They’ve not put us in stasis pods,” Afterburner noted that small mercy, “so whatever they’re planning, they’re gonna move it forward pretty soon.”

Lightbright broke her shamed silence to make a suggestion. “A trial, maybe?” 

Windblade remembered, one of the bots who captured her had mentioned that there would be a trial. But Maxima scoffed, a sound that was more like another ragged cough. 

“Please. If the law works here like it does back home, we’d be piles of rust by the time they get around to something like that.”

But, Windblade thought, maybe that was precisely what the Cybertronians intended to do. With no way to contact home, they could just rot away in this dungeon until they were nothing more than cold steel and dead circuits. Her wings were only getting colder, heavier, as she sank into the wall behind her, yet she couldn’t make herself move away. Between the freeze seeping through from outside and the fizzling glare of her cell’s gate, she preferred the one that would numb her with the least amount of pain.

Then, what felt like only a breem later, there was another arrival. But this time, there was more than just jagged shadows across the floor outside Windblade’s cell. They came closer, and closer, until their owners were standing before her. She didn’t recognise either of the two bots, though with the energy gate down there was no light to see them by. 

“You’ll come with us, Windblade,” one of them croaked- literally, his vocaliser made a sound that was like hearing a rusty hinge. “Your trial begins now.” The other took a wide step forward, so that they could just pluck her up from her poor sanctuary by one of her frozen wings. For a moment her legs were too numb for her to walk, so she could only stumble as she was dragged out of the cage.

“Get your hands off her!” Chromia came as close as she could to the energy shield of her cell, spitting through the bars. “If I see one mark on her plating, none of you’ll be making it to the Allspark!”

“Who will be defending her?” Afterburner demanded, the one voice louder than Chromia’s.

“On Cybertron, prisoners defend themselves,” a femme’s gruff voice told him. “Unless  _ you  _ would like to do the honor?” She was laughing as she said it. Afterburner didn’t see what the joke was.

“Yes, actually,” he said. “I would.”

The two guards went silent and stiff, still holding tightly onto Windblade secured between them. Then they decided that the mech was being serious, and one of them went to release him too. 

“What the Pit, Afterburner?” Chromia hissed, glaring across at him from her cell. “ _ I’m  _ her bodyguard, I should be-!”

“No offense, ‘Mia,” Afterburner interrupted firmly, “but you’re not exactly the most  _ civil _ out of all of us. And this isn't a battle that'll be won with fists. I’m the best chance Windblade and the rest of us have got out there.”

At that, Chromia silenced her protest as her mouth formed a hard straight line. And when her optics found Windblade’s’, her glare had disappeared. If this had been anyone other than Chromia, the Speaker would have thought that her bodyguard was scared for her.  _ Scared _ . As if Chromia even knew what that word meant. 

Still cuffed like her, Afterburner was shoved next to Windblade, close enough that she felt like she could get away with a whisper. “Burner, are you sure abou-?” 

“Yes.” He was saying it as soon as she spoke. “Absolutely. You’re not going in there alone.” He couldn’t reach for her hand with them both shackled, but he gave her a nudge with his elbow that was almost as reassuring. With someone else by her side, she didn’t feel so cold now as they were paraded through the detention center. If there was anyone else imprisoned in Ferromax, they didn’t make themselves known. The permanent prisoners, the rebel gestalts Rattrap had mentioned, must have been kept somewhere else. At least the Camiens hadn’t been judged as that much of a threat… though depending on how Windblade made herself look, that could all change. 

  
  


**xx**

The courtroom was a familiar sight that did nothing to comfort Windblade. This was the same room that they’d been brought to earlier that very same day (was it even still the same day? Her chronometer said so, but she didn’t know if she could trust it). The room with the tiered galleries, and the cavernous ceiling, and the podiums... and the blind statue, the one with the sword and scales. Though its optics were covered, she had the distinct feeling it was watching her through that film of metallic gauze, judging her as much as the three mechs ahead of her were. The Chancellor himself was there, seated at the highest point on the far side of the room. As they stared over the point of the statue, none of his faces looked proud or sad, or even angry at the supposed 'terrorists' entering the room. Windblade didn't recognise the other two at either side of him. Both were clad in purple plates, both had odd arrangements on their backs, and both followed Rattrap's example in regarding her with nothing more than quiet curiosity. 

She and Afterburner were lead beneath the circular gallery that stretched over almost half of the hall, and she could hear it creaking under the weight of all the people packed into it. Once she was out of its shadow, the room exploded into noise that assaulted her audios, and she knew that they must have been in full view of everyone now. She tried to angle her head back to see just how many had gathered above, but Afterburner stopped her with another nudge. A nanoklick after he did so, something rotten sailed right past Windblade's shoulder and landed with a soft squelch by her ped. Some sort of expired energon, stinking of ozone and ammonia. Just as she flinched away, the two guards escorting them bristled and closed in around her, while a thud echoed out over the deafening chatter of the crowd. 

"Order!" It was Rattrap, banging something on his elevated desk. "There will be no pelting until a guilty verdict has been reached!"

“Ya heard the guy, no slag on the dame ‘til the slag comes out!” his left head added with a chitter. 

The command carried all across the court, and soon everyone lowered their voices to a murmur that hummed like a simmer over Windblade's buzzing head. A small bug-like bot scurried in to brush aside the rotten fuel, but it didn't look up at her as it ran back to safety. Windblade looked to Afterburner, but he kept his optics forward. Facing their danger down. She tried to follow his example, even if she couldn't bring herself to meet any of Rattrap's optics. Not because she felt guilty, not at all. Because she couldn’t believe that this was the same mech who had welcomed them so warmly, now putting them on trial for crimes against his people.

"Senator Ratbat," the Chancellor turned to the mech seated at his left so that only two of his heads were visible, "would you please issue the opening statement?"

"Certainly." Ratbat stood, and Windblade saw that he had wings like her- only his were more like blocky triangles bolted to his spinal strut. A light orange fur surrounded his cuffs and neck, and it swayed lightly as he cleared his vocaliser with a cough into his claws. Why did everyone on Cybertron seem to have claws?

“Welcome, everyone, to the trial of the Caminus terrorists.” Ratbat greeted the crowded courtroom as if he was the Mistress of Flame addressing a congregation, and immediately Afterburner was heckling him.

“Objection,” the bodyguard cried out, “you can’t say that we’re terrorists when we haven’t been convicted yet!” Ratbat visibly rolled his optics, and another riot almost broke out before Rattrap managed to restore order again.

“Sustained,” the Chancellor ruled. “The terrorist  _ does _ have a point.”

“Fine, fine," Ratbat drawled once the noise had died down, "the trial of the Caminus  _ prisoners _ . Is that better? Good. Now, as I was saying before such a rude interruption...” He descended from his stand, to meet the Camiens at ground level. Afterburner was taller than him, but Windblade had learned better by now than to judge by size. Ratbat weighed each of them separately, soaking them into his optics, before giving them a smile so subtle that Windblade wondered if it was even there. But it was; just for a nanoklick, just before he turned away from them.

“We are a humble people, Cybertronians- or,  _ technorganics _ , as we were called." He appealed to the audience; stepping back so he wouldn't have to crane his neck, standing beside the statue that dominated the center of the room. "That name that was once such a vile slur, now a symbol of pride for all of us still alive to wear it. For untold centuries, we suffered under our ancestors. We learned the hard lesson that anyone,  _ anyone  _ who was different from us would punish us for not fitting their mould. After all, our own kind had no reservations about doing so. Why should everyone else be different?"

"He's building up a narrative against us," Afterburner muttered, trying to angle his frame down so that his whisper would reach Windblade's audios. "Trying to make it seem like we'd be more likely to do something bad than not."

Ratbat coughed again, buying time for a chance to make the Camiens look insubordinate. Windblade knew it without needing Afterburner to tell her; this wasn't a way for them to prove the accusations against them wrong, it was just a way for them to further ruin their image in front of the rest of Cybertron. Ratbat was trying to bait them, with every word. Maybe even trying to guilt them into confessing, as if there was anything to even confess to. Windblade bit her lip, keeping herself still against Afterburner as she listened to the senator's plea for pity.

"And then," Ratbat looked at the Camiens from the corner of his optic, "for the first time in many eons, we allowed strangers into Cybertron. We took the risk and we  _ trusted  _ them, because we so desperately wanted to believe that these people, our brothers and sisters from a different star, would prove us wrong." He stretched out a servo towards them both, unfurling his wing like some metallic petal, and let a moment pass for his speech to dissipate around the grand hall.

"We welcomed them into our home with open arms... and what did they do in return?" Ratbat raised his voice, and fangs were visible in his mouth as it let out his condemnation in a screech of fury. "They spat back in our faces and went off behind our backs, as if we’re blind idiots, thinking the whole while that they would get away with it! They tried to hurt and sabotage us,  _ here, _ on our own home!" He didn't face the Camiens as he hurled the accusations, and he didn't need to. Windblade could see the rage in his neck cords, in the steam hissing from his shoulder vents. And it wasn't them he was trying to win over. It was crowd, and they were more than happy to join in with his indignation. This time, Rattrap did nothing to quiet it. Even Afterburner was flinching from the noise and the insults flung down towards him and Windblade from the galleries. It went on for a klick, and then two. Ratbat let slip a grin that he couldn't hide fast enough this time, though he didn't seem to care either way. Then some invisible switch was flipped, and Ratbat brought them all to calm again with just his hand held open above him.

“That is why we are here today," he announced, sharpening his servo to a pointed claw that aimed toward one bot. "To confront Windblade of Caminus. So-called ‘Cityspeaker’, and the ringleader of this operation." He met her optics, as if daring her to follow suit. And when she didn't flinch away… he winked. As if this was some kind of inside joke, or a secret game. 

"Thank you, Senator." Chancellor Rattrap waited for Ratbat to seat himself once more, while the purple mech on his other side watched the Senator with a strange predatory look. Like he'd been waiting for Ratbat to make a fatal error. This one didn't have wings; the regalia on his back was more like an array of jagged sticks folded together. And, like Rampage, his mouth was half-hidden by a bristling shield of fangs that pointed upwards and lined his lower jaw. Before Windblade could wonder what role such a mech would play today, Rattrap went to the next phase of proceedings.

"We will now begin the questioning."

"Er, Chancellor," Afterburner called out, "shouldn't we be allowed to-?" A guard's elbow in his chest cut him off, but he would have struggled to shout over Rattrap's amplified voice anyway.

"Windblade,” Rattrap said her name like it was something ugly. “Is it true that you were found within an area that you were fully aware was forbidden to you?"

Afterburner immediately hissed in her audio. "Don't answer that."

Windblade wanted to listen to him, but she knew that every nanoklick she spent in silence only made her look more suspicious. She gulped, gathering her strength to not flinch her optics away. "Y...Yes, but I-"

Ratbat was back on his peds, pointing a claw down at her like it was from the hand of Primus. "See, she admits to trespassing!"

"Not only that,” Rattrap went on while Windblade stuttered, “we have a report that you had recruited someone to escort you to Metroplex in the first place."

Windblade’s vents hitched in the middle of her floundering defense, and her spark pulsed cold. Did they know about Airazor after all? Had she been the one to betray her in the first place? No… but even if Airazor did, Windblade would gain nothing from doing the same. She screwed her optics shut, so hard that she was sure her markings would start to flake off when she opened them. " _ That _ is not true,” she asserted, “I acted alone!"

“So  _ no-one  _ else knew where you were?” Rattrap asked, leaning his face on one hand while the head on his left yawned. “No-one at all? Not a single one of your fellow trusted companions, like that mech next you?” The Chancellor waved a lazy hand towards Afterburner, who took a bold step forwards.

“My name is Afterburner,” he informed everyone, shrugging off the guard who tried to pull him backwards, “and I only came to Cybertron as bodyguard to my Cityspeaker Lightbright! The one you have locked away like the rest of us, like we’re some mechanimals!”

From the explosion of hisses and murmurs above, his word choice was poor. Almost every Cybertronian they’d seen could have been called ‘mechanimals’ in some way, and they likely had been long ago. Afterburner only realised his slip once it was too late to fix it. 

“So there are more ‘Speakers’ like you, Windblade?” Rattrap asked, his other head fully awake now and eyeing her like she was an energon morsel. “Others who would take interest in someone like Metroplex, who would have every reason to assist in getting you to him? Who would only let one of you carry out such a plan, to minimise losses?” 

‘Plan’? What did they think Windblade had been trying to do?! She’d told them over and over, all she wanted to do was  _ talk  _ to Metroplex, yet that alone had been too much to ask for. What else was she supposed to have been trying to get away with? Solus, it was like being plunged into the middle of a play without knowing any of the script. She almost wished she’d brought Vertex with her instead of Afterburner, for all the good that the bodyguard was able to be. 

“Windblade would have informed her fellow Camiens that Metroplex was off-limits,” Ratbat added to the lie, “yet that stopped none of them. For he is not only forbidden, he is a  _ danger  _ to all of us!” He was still pointing that claw; that awful jagged claw at her, glinting with the reflections of all the optics that she couldn’t see trained on her but that she could  _ feel _ , all of them, like a thousand splatters of rotten fuel corroding through her. And she was supposed to just stand there and let it all waste her away?

She didn’t belong here. She was  _ innocent _ , they  _ all _ were. Rattrap knew that, but he didn’t care. He just wanted an excuse to get them all off his planet,  _ any _ excuse. And even if she and her friends had nothing to do with it, he was still deceiving his people, the ones he’d sworn to protect and serve. He was lying to them about the Camiens, and he was lying about Metroplex. How could no-one else see it...?!

“ _ You  _ are the only danger here, Chancellor! You and your spokesmech here!” While the guards were busy pulling Afterburner back into place, Windblade took her chance and shoved her way past them to stand right before Rattrap- confronting him face-to-face, like he was too cowardly to do. “You spread lies about Metroplex being contaminated to keep everyone away from him! Listen, everyone!” She turned to face the jury, seeing them for the first time, trying not to crumple right away under the weight of so many optics. Even without the statue facing her with its blind gaze to add to the audience, she had to pause to swallow the lump of static in her vocaliser. 

“I went within Metroplex,” she announced, “-who, by the way, has absolutely no security around him- and I saw bots inside him! Workers! And the ones who arrested me, they would have died getting to me if there was really monoxide everywhere! He’s awake and aware and all he wants to do is protect people. There’s nothing dangerous about him at all!” She spread her arms wide, and her wings followed suit, to force attention on her and the truth of her plea. Even with all the fearmongering the Rats were trying to do, surely someone would see the inconsistency. Even the guards were hesitant, not immediately surging forward to drag her back beside Afterburner (who just stared at her trying not to be impressed). The silence, the stillness that followed was reassuring only for a nanoklick. After that, it was only chilling as she turned back to face Rattrap and his company. The Chancellor gave nothing away, but Ratbat’s eyeridges shot up over his optics.

“Workers, you say?” the senator asked. “You mean like these ones?” He pointed, but not to her. Beyond her, to the back of the room, where she and Afterburner had been brought in from. She saw figures walking in the shadow of the viewing gallery, just as she had done, and recognised only two of the six green mechs who emerged into the light. Three stood on each side of the statue, hands behind their backs, the familiar two standing together on the left. Windblade had to gulp again, wondering if any of them had seen her after all and given her away.

“Hook, Long Haul, Mixmaster, Bonecrusher, Scavenger and Scrapper,” Ratbat called out, and each one nodded as they were introduced. “Construction workers in loyal service to the High Technorganic Council, who have long since unburdened themselves of the shame of their ancestors. They are the only ones with authorised access to Metroplex, because only they can survive the toxic conditions within him.” With that out of the way, the workers turned to leave the way they came. 

“You would have known this yourself, Windblade,” Ratbat accused, “being mechanical like them. You also would have known precisely what was wrong with the Titan, and therefore be fully capable of using this knowledge to deadly effect.”

Just was Windblade was starting to piece together the prosecutor’s strategy, wondering just how much of what she’d seen was a set-up to trap her, she was completely lost once again. A guard tugged her back to Afterburner’s side, but she kept her neck craned over her shoulder to ask, “What the Pit are you talking about?”

Ratbat grinned, every fang glinting wetly, and he leaned across his stand to address the other purple mech who had remained silent this whole time. “Tarantulas, as our expert witness, would you care to give us your hypothesis?”

“Certainly.” Tarantulas sounded only too pleased to finally have some attention, as he blinked one row of red optics while the others below narrowed to sharp pinpricks on his silver face. His biolights, bright green orbs embedded into his plates, almost twinkled in amusement and the spines lining his jaw seemed to quiver as he smiled, matching the peculiar rods on his back. 

“As a ‘Cityspeaker’,” he didn’t mask his contempt of the word, even framing it with a twitch of his talons, “Windblade claims to be able to communicate with the Titan Metroplex. If she  _ really  _ knows his workings so intimately, then it would be an easy task to figure out where the poison gas was coming from within him. From there, she was planning to capture some and transport it back to the Council chambers with her, where she would have deployed it to assassinate the entire power structure of Cybertron, knowing full well that her kind would not be affected.” 

“ _ What _ ?!” Afterburner voiced her own thoughts before she even knew what they were. “That’s ridiculous-!”

“She might have even tried to reawaken the Titan,” Tarantulas continued heedlessly- all optics on Windblade, daring her to interrupt him herself- “convincing him to take his offense form to launch a full-scale assault on Cybertron. After all, Metroplex is an ancient being. Older than any of us. I’ve explained my theory before, that the whole reason Metroplex has poisoned himself was to prevent the likes of  _ us  _ from inhabiting him. It stands to reason that he would stake his loyalty on someone who resembles a ‘pure’ Cybertronian.” Again that twitch of his claws, soiling the word as it parted from his fangs.

He stated the whole story like he was reading it from a historical document, like it had already happened and been decided as fact. Like it made any fragging sense at all! Windblade could feel her optics about to pop out of her helm and drag her nerve cords around behind them- Pit, she almost wished they would, just to relieve the pressure building in her processor. Everything felt hot and horrible, and she could feel the warmth coming up through her cheeks, the blush showing even under her markings. She felt like she was about to have a full system crash just trying to understand what was happening. They couldn’t actually think she’d been planning  _ any _ of that, could they? Even if she wasn’t the one on trial, she would have struggled to believe it. Just how stupid were Cybertronians supposed to be?

“I can’t _ believe _ this slag I’m hearing!” she snapped. “How could you-!?”

“Objection,” Ratbat shrilled over Windblade’s protests, “defendant is using inappropriate language in the courtroom!”

“Sustained.” Rattrap banged the surface of his desk, loud enough that Windblade had no chance of being heard over it. Even when the echo of the impact died away, the Chancellor swiftly moved on without even addressing the so-called assassination plot against him. “Call the public witness."

‘ _ Witness...?’  _ Would this be when they finally dragged in Airazor, who would turn out to be a spy all along? Or someone like Monopoly to spout even more lies? Windblade looked to Afterburner, but he only gave her a helpless shrug as one of the of the bug bots in the side-wings of the courtroom stepped out. 

“Calling forth Powerpinch, progeny of Razorclaw and Antagony.” Some nanoklicks passed, but no-one appeared and nothing happened. The bug mech sighed, and looked again at the datapad in his hand. “Calling forth Powerpinch, also known as ‘Scissor Boy’.”

Only then did small footsteps fill the room, coming from behind the bug. Scissor Boy, the youngling who had fled away from this very room not long ago, kept his helm down as he trudged up to one of the other empty stands around Rattrap. Ratbat then stood before him, leaning down so he didn’t tower over the little mech.

"Tell the court what you heard these  _ Camiens _ talk about, little one,” the Senator said, a soft command amplified so that everyone could still hear it. 

Scissor Boy’s shaking vents filled the room as they piped into the microphone built into his stand. "They… th-they were asking about the Tainted Well…" His voice dropped to a whisper, but Windblade knew what he was so scared to speak of. The Well that had birthed every generation who had oppressed the technorganics, the one that had withered away and died. 

"And what kind of questions were they asking?" Ratbat pressed.

"Wanted to know… w-what happened to it. Didn’t tell them anything. Honest.”

“Why did they want to know?”

“Don’t know. Didn’t tell them. Am… am I in trouble? Does uncle Inferno know I’m here?” That word again, ‘uncle’. Was it the same as ‘sire’, the one that Monopoly had mentioned? Whatever it meant, Scissor Boy clearly had some direct association with Rattrap if he knew Inferno. But this wasn’t an act just to make Camiens look even worse. The little mech was clearly terrified. Of  _ what _ ? Surely Chromia didn’t scare him  _ that  _ much...

“You’re not in trouble, not all,” Ratbat assured him. “We just want to hear the truth, as you experienced it. Take your time.” 

Scissor Boy nodded, a rapid movement of his bowed helm, and his gulp filled the room. “They… they’re scary. They know  _ bad _ things, they…” His face crumpled like steel in acid, and he curled into a ball on his seat. “They're not  _ normal _ !” he cried out, his voice not muffled at all by his frame wrapped around himself. “They don't have  _ parents _ ! So how do they even have sparks?! It doesn’t make sense!"

Windblade could only watch the young one hold himself together, not knowing what to say to reassure him. How could she, when she didn’t even understand why he was so upset? Of course she had a spark, how else would she be standing here defending herself? Maybe she wasn’t ‘normal’ to these kind of people, but she was as much a living being as the rest of them. What kind of propaganda was Rattrap really trying to spread about them all?

"That will be all, Scissor Boy,” Ratbat soothed, gently patting the stand to draw his attention out from his shell. “You can go now." The little mech slowly uncurled and scurried away, hugging himself tightly as he fled once again.

“Does the young one speak the truth, Windblade?” Ratbat turned his optics on her, the fur around his neck standing up like some kind of challenge. “Do Camiens not have parents, or even families? Do you all come from one source and live a life untethered to no one but your leader and yourselves?” He asked like her being alive was some kind of unspeakable crime to be accused of, but Tarantulas only hissed a laugh at the prospect.

“Very interesting, if true,” he muttered to himself.

Windblade felt her mouth hanging open with nothing coming out. She wanted to ask what parents were supposed to be, or ‘families’. She’d have assumed it was just another word for sororities and fraternities back home, but everything about Cybertron was so bizarre and foreign she knew better now than to assume anything. Afterburner wasn’t telling her not to answer this time. He wasn't saying anything at all, because what could he possibly come up with now to convince anyone here? All that she  _ could  _ say, like Scissor Boy, was the truth she knew, whether or not it condemned them all.

“It’s true.” Windblade took great effort to say it calmly. “We come from the Caminus hot spot. But that doesn’t mean-”

“What it  _ means _ ,” Ratbat viciously cut in, “is that Camiens have no proof of  _ empathy _ . Of  _ loyalty  _ to anything but your own kind. So the prospect of at least one of you committing such a savage act of terrorism is not at all out of the question. In fact, from the evidence seen today, it would be completely expected. You have no reason  _ not  _ to do it. By destabilizing Cybertron for the simple crime of being different, you have nothing to lose and everything to gain.” 

“That is complete and utter bullslag!” Windblade almost reached for her sword, before remembering that it had been taken along with the freedom of her wrists. So she settled for aiming her cuffed hands at the vile Senator. “And don’t you dare interrupt me with another objection! Don’t you dare interrupt me  _ at all _ before I’ve had my say!” She heaved her vents, and Ratbat looked shocked at her actually accepting his challenge. Before he could gather himself and shut her down again, Windblade took her second chance and looked Rattrap right in the only two optics that seemed to see anything.

“Yes, I admit that I trespassed inside Metroplex,  _ alone _ , with no-one else, because no-one else would let me near him. My role, my job, my  _ entire reason  _ for being here was to speak to him and hear what he had to say about what was  _ really  _ going on around here. And  _ of course _ Camiens come from a hot spot! How else are we supposed to grow our population?! We have no other means, not like Cybertronians so obviously do! We don’t know what parents are, or sires, or whatever else you call yourselves here, so how can we know how that makes us look?! Even then, it makes no difference! I’ve seen good  _ and  _ bad bots come from the exact same cluster, from the exact same quadrant. Our origins have  _ nothing  _ to do with what we are and what we become, and you have  _ no proof  _ whatsoever that I or anyone else had  _ any _ intention of hurting Cybertron!”

When she finished, there was an ache in her throat and fingers, her digits almost cutting into her palm from how much force she put into her fists. Her glossa found that her mouth was dry, and suddenly all she could think of was energon in her empty tanks. She hadn’t taken any fuel since the previous evening, no wonder she felt so dizzy and overwhelmed… even so, she stood her ground before the Chancellor. Neither Ratbat nor Tarantulas or even Afterburner could sway her attention from Rattrap, the mech with three faces that he seemed to juggle between so effortlessly. Either this was his true face revealed, or that one was still yet to come. She would greet that one the same way- with unwavering conviction in herself, and her home. 

Meanwhile, this one stared her down for nanoklicks, tapping his left chin expectedly. Then his teeth showed through in a smile. 

“Mechs and femmes of this court, please direct your attention to the projector.” He gestured at the empty wallspace above him, and as the lights in the courtroom went low an image started to appear there. Unlike the Mistress’ holographic constructs to simulate the archives of data within her sanctum, this was a recording with its resolution blown up to fill the wall. As it came into focus, she recognised the room,  _ this  _ accursed room, and then herself. Then she realised what her projected self was doing. By then, it was too late to do anything about the Mistress’ voice as it went all the way from the ground to the ceiling.

_ “See to it, Windblade. I have faith in you and your fellow City-”  _

How did they get this? When were they filming her here? Why,  _ how _ did they know that any of this would happen to her?

_ “What are those… things behind you, Windblade?”  _

_ “They’re… Cybertronians, Mistress.” _

_ “These... these disgusting creatures are supposed to be our ancestors?! Unbelievable!” _

This wasn’t happening. This was just a recharge glitch. She’d wake up on Caminus, and tell Chromia all about the awful things she’d seen, and then Chromia would laugh and talk about how she would never let any of them get captured like that-

_ “Do your duty, Windblade. And do it quickly. Just the thought of having my people stranded there with such creatures around them makes my spark ache…” _

The lights came up, and the damning video disappeared. Windblade heard hisses, barks and snarls all around her. Only one sound didn’t match the others, but it was the worst of them all. A cold question laid out exactly like the trap that it was. 

"Who was that you were talking to, Windblade?" Rattrap asked.

She was numb again. Afterburner tried to take her hand, but all she felt was needles pressing into her palm. Solus herself could arrive and threaten to strike her down with her Forge, and Windblade would still not have been able to move.

"...The Mistress of Flame,” she breathed. “She sent us here. But she does not represent-!"

“Enough.” Ratbat’s disgust was hard enough to hear; if Windblade had raised her head, she wasn’t sure if she could even handle what she would see. “You’ve had your say, and it does nothing to refute the evidence we’ve just seen. The truth is, these  _ Camiens  _ are no better than the Cybertronians who would rather have had us  _ dead  _ than sharing their precious planet!" The uproar that followed his voice was enough to smother Windblade’s spark.

“It’s settled, then,” Rattrap announced. “These would-be terrorists will be ejected from Cybertron immediately, and never will a Camien be allowed to land on our home again.”

“As if any of us would  _ want  _ to come back!” Afterburner spat out. “You keep telling yourself what you want to hear, the lot of you! We tried to reason, and you wouldn’t fragging listen!” A guard tried to pull him back, but he fought her off by slamming his shackles into the side of her helm. The riot spread all across the ground of the courtroom, and before Windblade could even fight for herself she was surrounded by resistance. Over her throbbing processor and shrieks for space, Rattrap’s verdict was all she could hear.

“Windblade, I declare you and your entire delegation guilty of attempted terrorism. Take them away.” As soon as the thud sounded, a thousand more followed as all sorts of junk and bio-waste rained down from above. The ‘pelting’; the stink choking her olfactories, rotten juices seeping into her armour seams. The only satisfaction Windblade had was that as much of it got in the guards as well as her.

“You are a fraud, Chancellor!” she howled, for herself and Metroplex and the others still locked away for her own mistake. “And the Mistress will know it, all of Caminus will!” She stared past the statue- that  _ useless _ fragging statue that none of them deserved- at Rattrap the whole time she was dragged away into the safe shadow of the gallery, back towards the cells. He said nothing- well, two of him didn’t. His left helm, cackling as it ogled the chaos around the court, let slip a manic giggle that managed to reach her audios. 

“Windy’s goin’ on the naughty list! Windy’s goin’ to see the ‘Cracker!”

And then the door closed, and they were all gone. Only her, and the escorts pulling her, and Afterburn-

No... he wasn’t here. She couldn’t see him anywhere. She put weight on her peds to slow down and try and look around for him, but there was no-one. He hadn’t followed her out.

“Where’s Afterburner?” she demanded, stumbling as the guard’s firm grip kept her moving. “Where are we going?”

The guard smiled, even though her helm bore the mark of Afterburner’s shackles hitting against it. “You’ll see him again,” she promised.

Windblade said nothing as she was dragged through the freezing halls, the same ones that had welcomed her and her friends so warmly just a few breems ago. 

She’d had her chance to be heard, and it was gone. Now she didn’t want to speak anymore. She just wanted to go home. 


	12. Chapter 12

Windblade didn’t start screaming until she was alone in another cell. It was a different one this time; solitary, even smaller, barely enough room for her wings to stretch from one wall to another. A slot far above her in one of the walls made up a window, which allowed a cone of white-speckled light to fall on her as the guards abandoned her there. Their peds retreated into the darkness, heavy sounds that faded until she heard the hidden door slam shut behind them. 

She had just enough self-control left to hold back for that long. And when she started, she didn’t know how to stop. She screamed for herself, for all the time wasted on this fragging planet, for her friends being punished for her own mistake. For the festering rot that now covered her armor and forced her to shut off her olfactories, before she ended up purging herself of whatever her empty tanks had to spare. She screamed for the lies that had been spread about them all over Cybertron, while even more that she didn’t know about were surely being concocted to make them all look like monsters. 

She wanted to kick, and punch, and claw at someone. Anyone who came near. Anyone who dared to touch her again and brand her a terrorist. She didn’t care if she would prove the Rats and Tarantulas right. Because, in a way, they  _ were  _ right. She hated this place. She hated the people. She hated the secrets, the deceptions, the things that made no sense, the  _ fragging  _ cold, why was it so _ FRAGGING COLD?!  _ If it wasn’t for the heat generated by her own rage, she would have frozen solid by now!

Even with prison walls all around her, the gap above her let in a dreadful draught that almost mocked her as it swirled around the numb nodes on her wings. And from that window, from the light it forced down onto her so she couldn’t even find solace in total dark, she saw that the white specks swirling gently down weren’t just glitches from her optics. They were solid particles right up until they landed on her, where they then melted away into nothing. She didn’t feel anything when they hit her. She didn’t know what they even were. Maybe Nautica would have known, or would have been fascinated enough to try and find out. 

But Nautica wasn’t here. Neither was Chromia, or Afterburner, or anyone else who could have saved her from her own mind. Pit, she would have even been grateful for Lightbright’s company at that moment. Someone who resented her was better than no one at all. 

At least, that was what she’d thought until she heard the door open once again, and saw disembodied lights from the visitor’s frame come floating towards her. She didn’t know how much later the sound came, too weary to even check her chronometer. Did it even matter how long she’d been there for? The cold made every klick feel like an endless breem.

“Windblade?” It was a voice she didn’t recognise, not at first, not until the sickly green biolights burned hard enough for her to remember where she’d seen them before. The optics, too. Six of them, all red, all staring at her. 

"What are  _ you  _ doing here?" Windblade held back from spitting at him, barely- but Tarantulas still flinched as if she did. Then he came closer, only slightly, just enough for the light from the window to illuminate his face. He managed to look sad, for some reason. 

"I wanted to apologise,” he said. “I wouldn't be able to recharge if you left Cybertron thinking no one here had any sympathy for you.”

Windblade was so baffled that she briefly forgot to be angry, just long enough for her to shake her head and have the violent heat rush back into her. 

“ _ Sympathy? _ You went out there and made me and my friends look like we were  _ murderers _ ! Spouting complete bullslag about how we want to ruin Cybertron or whatever the frag-!”

Tarantulas raised a hand, keeping the claws blunt against his palm, trying to fight back the flames of her fury. “Please understand, Windblade, I was only doing my job.” He was pleading, his optics creased together like they might all start flooding his face with coolant that would surely freeze on his face. “I was just following the script I was given. The Chancellor would have me suffer too, if I went against his orders. Pit, I’m not even supposed to be here speaking to you."

Windblade heaved her vents, forcing herself to stay standing so she wouldn’t give a mech like this one the satisfaction of seeing her crumple. But he kept staring at her, no fangs or claws bared, like he was actually trying to convince her that he was a friend. She was almost desperate enough to believe it. 

But even if she didn’t, he was the only ‘friend’ she had around. The only resource available to her, either sent in to interrogate her or here out of his own volition. Either way, her only options were to ignore him and hope that he left her alone to keep screaming and cursing and shivering… or to try and get something out of him while he was here. After all, if he was really defying the Chancellor by being here, he must have had something he needed to share with her. 

"Why does he want everyone to hate us? What is so important about Metroplex that he’s going this far to try and hide it?" She was shocked by how small her voice sounded, but she couldn’t bring herself to make it any louder. In such cramped conditions, the sound of her own despair would surely overwhelm her. 

"The only ones who know that are the ones that he trusts,” Tarantulas said, as helpless as she was. “All I can tell you is that Chancellor Rattrap takes his role very seriously. He is the savior of our kind, after all.” He said it with humour, as if it was a joke. “If he senses a threat to us, no matter how minor, he will do everything in his power to cast it out. And you, your… Cityspeaking talent, well, it's something we've never seen before. A powerful thing. A powerful threat to him. Alas, you're only the messenger, yet you're being punished for it." He placed a hand on the bars of her cell, plain steel instead of the energy gate that had kept her confined before. If she had claws like him, she could have tried carving away at the bars until she could slip through them. But even if she could get out, where would she go? The  _ Hermitian  _ was on Hydrax Plateau, and she had no idea where that even was, let alone how to fly it. Only Vertex and Nautica knew...

“Where are my friends?” she asked, gulping in anticipation of the answer. 

“Being held elsewhere,” Tarantulas answered. “You’ll be united again, soon enough. For now, you’ve been isolated for your own safety. In case overzealous citizens try to be vigilantes. It’s happened before, with… mechanical prisoners.” All of his optics looked away in shame. "I fully understand if you don’t trust me, Windblade. But I am truly sorry your journey here had to end this way... and that such lovely armor had to be soiled for it.” He gestured over her frame, and she looked down at the stains covering her plates. Some thick congealed globs were still stuck there, hardening into a repulsive crust from the cold.

“I have spares,” she mentioned, idly trying to scrape off the worst of the muck flung at her. “They’ll be on the ship by now, I suppose.” The grime was hardly a punishment compared to being so humiliated in front of Cybertron anyway, and the technorganics themselves surely suffered worse during their darker days.

Tarantulas inclined his helm, and something behind him made snipping noises as he blinked at her. “Even so, let me give you something. A gift, if you'd like."

Windblade stiffened, her wings snapping together; an automatic reaction when she felt like she had to flee, even if there was nowhere to escape to. "What kind of gift…?"

Tarantulas smiled, taking care not to bare his fangs at her. "Something better to wear, until you're taken back to your ship." He stepped back, ducking out of the light from the window momentarily, and when he appeared again he had something draped over one of his servos. It was pure white, like the specks that drifted into the cell from outside… a dress? Its cut looked similar to the kind performers on Caminus might wear, so similar that Windblade felt a pang of homesickness just looking at it. Something else that she couldn’t see was holding one end of the garment up, and it glittered like a sky full of stars, or a web covered in dew, as she pulled her optics over it. 

"It's… it’s beautiful.” Her vents let the truth slip out in a hush of awe. “But, what is it?"

Tarantulas closed all but his bottom two optics, like the others were eyeridges creasing together modestly. "I weaved it myself, from an organic fiber my frame produces. If I don't make something from it, then it all just goes to waste.” He pulled it over his servo and let some invisible third limb hold it up as he passed it through the bars of Windblade’s cell, handing it off to her. She was almost scared to take hold of such a delicate-looking thing, but when she touched it she found that it was stiff and sturdy despite its appearance. Not quite like the metal she was used to, more like the material that the Mistress’ ceremonial mantle was formed of (Windblade had never touched it, of course, but she imagined they were similar). 

“Don't be shy,” Tarantulas urged proudly. “Try it on. I won’t peek, promise.” He closed all his optics and then turned his back; as he did so, Windblade caught a glimpse of the strange arrangement of thin spiked rods all curled together there. Each one seemed to twitch now and then, like they were coiled up and ready to strike at something. As she removed her soiled armor plates and shivered anew in the cold she couldn’t help but keep watch on them all, just in case they moved towards her. But they stayed tucked within him as she carefully pulled Tarantulas’ dress over her frame, pleasantly surprised to find the back left open with only some straps for her wings to fit through. The whole garment was secured by a strap that went around her neck with a clasp, and her servos were covered with long sleeves that helped trap in her dwindling heat. It was flexible yet snug, with something like glitter shimmering across its intricate embroidered design whenever she moved. Most importantly, it was warm. She at least had something worth bringing back to Caminus now.

“It’s lovely, Tarantulas,” she sighed, almost forgetting all about her awful situation, just for a moment, as she watched the dress cast sparkles around her. “Thank you.”

Tarantulas looked back now, one row of optics opening after the other, and he nodded in approval. "Razorsilk, I call it,” he told her, starting to grin. “Would you like to see why?"

Windblade was admiring one of her sleeves, the way it flared out to cover her hand and shield her digits from the chill, when she found herself falling to the ground. As she hit the floor, she realised that something had stabbed her. And then another came. Then another, and another, all along her servos and legs and chest, like a thousand needles piercing her protoform… the only part of her spared from the burning pain were her wings, which flapped frantically as she writhed and cried out- not words, there was nothing her glossa could say through such agony. Everything throbbed, her spark and her processor and the energon thudding around her, yet she didn’t feel any leaking out, she didn’t feel  _ anything  _ except the stabbing ache that only worsened every time she flinched away from it. Other than her own confused, frantic cries, she could only hear the sound of metal scraping and footsteps approaching… and through the fluid covering her optics, she saw peds standing before her prone frame.

“Oh, wait a moment…” Tarantulas tutted above her. “Silly me, you must be freezing in just that dress. Here, let me add another layer for you.” Something heavy was pulled across her, and suddenly even her wings were wreathed in skewers of torment as they were bound together, unable to move at all. Windblade let loose a tortured sob, even though every movement only brought on a new wave of suffering, as her tortured mind realised what was really going on. The dress was a trap. Something about it, something Tarantulas had done to it, was causing her this pain. And it was far too late for her to get out of it. 

“You see, Windblade,” Tarantulas was saying over her hisses of pain, “when we first started all this, armor was a real problem. The external plates ended up melting onto the protoform once the process was over. Made it almost impossible to refurbish the frames into drones. It’s much easier to get it done wearing something non-metal. Some of the fibers even survive to be reused. I’d say you’re wearing the remains of… oh, five or six others right now.” 

Windblade was in too much agony to even wonder what the Pit he was talking about. Her mind, trying to isolate itself from her body like when she talked with Metroplex, picked out the sound of more footsteps that she couldn’t see.

“She’s ready,” Tarantulas told them. “Take her to him. I’ll follow.”

Hands grabbed under her shoulders, dragging her up off the floor despite her spasms, carrying her like she weighed nothing more than a sheet of metal. She left the light from her window, but just a moment later she was blinded by the glare hidden behind the door she was pulled through. An overhead light that forced her optics closed, only leaving her audios free to try and decipher what was about to happen to her, on top of the razor-sharp knives scraping against her skin every time she was jostled.

"What's the lineup again?" Tarantulas asked.

"Mostly femmes,” someone answered him. “Only two mechs." Was that… Monopoly’s voice? 

"Hm. We'll take care of this one, then switch the polarity for a mech next. Usual back and forth until only the femmes are left."

“Understood.” Hearing it again, Windblade found that the voice was definitely Monopoly’s, the head of Cybertron’s drones. “Think you’ll need additional assistance?”

“Not at all. Airachnid’s help will suffice.” Tarantulas laughed, a sound that would have made Windblade purge if there was anything left in her tanks and if her throat wasn’t already wracked with groans. Like how the cold had left her numb, she managed to block out the worst of the pain by distancing her mind from her body, her processor from her spark. Without so much agony to distract her, she could try and think of a way out of this… could she call out for the others, wherever they were? Could she rip open the dress with enough force? Even if it meant being down to her protoform, it was better than being covered in something trying to shave her skin down.

She inched her optics open, blinking through the automatic tears, but the blinding light was gone. This was a different room, one that cast a massive shadow over her as she was pulled into it. And then she was out of the shadow, and she realised why the walls around her looked familiar. This was the courtroom; without the lights overhead to illuminate it, and without the jury to judge her. Why was she back here when she’d already been sentenced?

“This is the tourist, hm?” A femme spoke from somewhere Windblade couldn’t see. “I was expecting something a little more interesting.”

“Don’t be rude, Airachnid. Besides, she’s just the first one.” 

Rattrap. That was him, his voice. He sounded close by. Windblade tried to crane her neck to see where he was, but she was dropped onto a chair with enough force that the razorsilk covering her began a whole new round of burning welts that lanced through her frame. If not for the restraints that came down on her wrists and ankles, she would have curled into a ball from how she writhed.

“How many do we have to get through, again; nine?” The femme, Airachnid, sounded like she was just asking what was for lunch.

“Seven," Rattrap answered, standing where she still couldn't see him. "Two of them managed to slip away.”

Airachnid made a sound of disappointment over the shrill screech of unseen metal against metal. “Still… it’s quite exciting, being so busy. I imagine it reminds you of the good old days, father.” She must have been addressing Tarantulas, from how he then let out his caustic chuckle. 

Strapped into that hard chair, Windblade found herself staring into her lap, the white dress bunched around her like some kind of straightjacket. And her wings, they felt like they were weighed down with lead, like they would just snap from her spine if she tried to take off with them. She was sitting there suffering for no good reason, and here these three were talking and laughing like she was a performer. And one of them… he was the  _ leader _ of Cybertron. How the Pit could he be allowing any of this?! Was he insane? Was this some kind of sick Cybertronian idea of a joke?

"Chancellor," Windblade swallowed her pain to try and not sound as wounded as she felt, "I don't know what the frag is wrong with you, or what you're trying to accomplish by tormenting me. But if you let me go now, I'll ask that the Mistress of Flame makes your punishment merciful." Asking was all she could do, but the Mistress would have him and Tarantulas executed no matter what for laying a hand on one of her Speakers- and Windblade would be glad of it. 

She looked up from her lap as a shadow crossed her, and found Rattrap standing in front of her chair. He didn't need to lean down to match level with her optics. If anything, his diminutive stature now towered over her.

"Ah, Windblade…” One of his claws hovered close to her face- just for a moment, long enough to make her flinch- before abruptly dropping to his side. “I'm afraid I have no intention of letting any of you go."

“Too bad, toots,” his left head snickered wildly, shaking back and forth with its giggles as Rattrap turned away. “Should’a ran while ya’ had the chance!” 

Windblade gulped again, but this time she was swallowing a sob. Solus, what was going to happen to her… and her friends? What had she dragged them all into?

"You… you can't do this,” she insisted, trying to convince herself as much as these awful beings. “When the Mistress sees that we haven't contacted her, she'll come here herself! And she'll bring all of Caminus with her; the bodyguards, the Torchbearers…!" She left that trembling threat hanging, until its full implications hit Rattrap in the back. He paused his retreat, turning slowly on his heel to face her again. 

"Will she now?” The huge denta jutting from his mouth curved together as he grinned. “Good. That's exactly what I'm counting on." And his left head only laughed harder, regaling in the thought of retaliation. 

What the… he really  _ was _ insane. That was the only explanation for all of this; her capture, the lies told about her, whatever punishment she was about to be put through. Was he trying to start a war with Caminus?  _ Why _ ? Why go this far just to ensure Cybertron’s destruction? Unless he was delusional enough to think that Cybertron would _ win _ such a battle…?

She looked up from the ground, to ask Rattrap herself what he thought he would really get out of all this other than death. But he wasn’t there anymore. Someone else now sat across from her, in a much larger chair. 

It was the statue. The one that dominated the center of the courtroom, winged and blindfolded, no longer standing there proud with his sword and scales. Now he was strapped down like her; same restraints, same forced slouch of defeat. But unlike her prison, this one had tubes and chains and wires coiled around the supports and servorests, feeding into the occupant… leading into his chest, which was pried open to reveal that which Windblade should not have been allowed to see under any circumstances. She was so shocked that she forgot her pain entirely, and that she only made herself look away after long nanoklicks had passed.

The fact that she was feeling such shame, that what she’d seen had a faint glow now burned into her optics… meant that it wasn’t a statue of a mech. It  _ was  _ a mech. 

“What… w-what are you doing?” She spoke into her shoulder, refusing to look forward anymore. “What the Pit is that thing?!”

“Why, Tarantulas,” Rattrap tutted, “I’m disappointed in you. You haven’t even introduced her to the pet yet!"

“You're right,” Tarantulas sighed. “How rude of me.” He sounded like he was behind Windblade, and that was confirmed when he reached over her shoulder to grab her chin and force her face upwards. She had no choice but to look at the frozen mech, and his chamber bared open before her like some kind of vivisected beast. 

“Windblade, my darling, naive little Cityspeaker…” The more she struggled away from him, the tighter his grip on her face became, the slice of his claws into her cheeks matching how his dress cut her open. “Meet our pride and joy.” He leaned down over her shoulder so that he was staring ahead too; his voice, as silky as the cursed dress he’d made, now penetrating her audios.

“We call him the Sparkcracker.” He relished the name, just as he relished the whimpers that leaked out from Windblade’s vocaliser. “See how his chest is fitted with hydraulic pumps, and all the tubes and wires powering them? That’s how he got his name. You’ll see it for yourself, very shortly. You and the rest of your little envoy.” Only once she had taken in the nature of the Sparkcracker’s chamber, the modifications and scars and pistons built into his frame, did Tarantulas finally release her head. But now that she was free, she couldn’t look away at all. There was so much done to him, so much  _ wrong  _ with him, that every nanoklick she saw something new to appall her. The fluids running through the tubes into him, some glowing like energon and some thickly black like oil, the way his mouth was welded shut with bulbous soldering stains dripping down each corner of his lips, his armor pitted with holes that bored right through his protoform to the endoskeleton beneath, and even more that she had to look away from. His state of being was horrifyingly hypnotizing… how was he even alive, having to live like this?

Or, a better question;  _ why  _ was he alive? What purpose was his barely-beating spark supposed to serve here? Windblade didn’t want to find out. She  _ couldn’t,  _ she had to get out, or… or...

“Chromia! Afterburner!” She screamed with all the strength she had left, heedless of how her throat felt as torn as her skin. But no one answered. No one came. Rattrap only gave her a curious look, all three of his heads tilting in different directions. 

“Interesting. Camiens call out for help, too. So you and the originals aren’t so different at all.” Then he shrugged, as if it was a curious piece of trivia for himself. "I'll leave you both to it, then. Though, of course, I'll be watching from a safe distance." His center head nodded to wherever Tarantulas and Airachnid were, while his left snickered to himself.

“Hehehe, yeah, ain’t gonna wanna miss the light show! See ya’ in the next life, toots!” The Chancellor gave Windblade a mocking wave farewell as he disappeared from sight. She was too scared to follow his departure with her optics; scared of being hurt again, or touched, or seeing something else she didn’t want to...

“Primus, I hate when he barges in like that.” Airachnid at last strode into view- no,  _ scuttled _ , on eight legs that jutted out from her back like bristling weaponry. Then, just as Windblade was trying to process what she was seeing, the creature unveiled her primary legs from a cocoon hanging under her and hid the other thin ones neatly against her spinal strut, creating an arrangement on her back very similar to Tarantulas’. With these new legs she completed her march towards the Sparkcracker, one clasp of talons on her hip as she inspected him. 

“We have to humour him when he wishes,” Tarantulas excused, following Airachnid around the other side of Windblade. He did not stop before his ‘pride and joy’ though. Instead he stopped and turned to face her like Rattrap had, with that very same grin. Except this one had not just two sharp denta at the front, but a mouth full of fangs that stretched from each cheek. And instead of three heads creating a chilling silhouette on his shoulders, the legs on his back unfurled and framed him like wings stripped of all skin and feathers. 

“Now Windblade, my sweet,” he purred, “would you mind terribly if you opened your chestplates for us?”

Windblade hadn’t heard him right. She hadn’t. She mustn’t have. But he twitched his claws, and they were aimed right to the middle of her frame. Where her chamber was, and the pounding spark it protected.

Out of everything she’d gone through until now, that was the one thing she was truly terrified to hear. Her spark was a holy gift from Primus, something for her optics only, to never be seen by anyone else- not even the Mistress herself. Everyone, even the most skeptical pariahs on Caminus, understood the significance of the spark. 

And here she was, being asked to show it to a mech who was torturing her and a femme she didn’t know at all. Here she was, being asked to offer it up to something called a ‘Sparkcracker’. 

“I absolutely fragging  _ would  _ mind!” That was her answer, and that would be the end of it. They could do whatever they wished, try whatever other torment they wanted, but they would never get to her chamber while it was still alight with her life. After all, it wasn’t like they could force the plates open… she wasn’t like their pet, that Sparkcracker thing. They couldn’t treat her like a lab rat.

Tarantulas’ array of legs wilted in defeat, but then they shook with laughter coming from his torso. “My, they’re even as modest as the Cybertronians!” He looked over his shoulder to Airachnid, only silencing his chuckles when he returned his gaze to Windblade. Eight optics staring her down, not a single one taking time to blink. 

“Believe me, Windblade, it’ll be over a lot sooner if you comply. If you don’t, well… we’ll have to force them open. I’m sure you don’t want that.”

Windblade blinked, wasting precious moments wondering if he was serious, then wondering  _ how  _ he could be serious. The only way to bypass her chamber’s protective locks would be to put her offline. And if they needed her spark for whatever was going to happen then they wouldn’t just kill her… right? While she sat there paralysed by whatever the truth might be, he sighed in disappointment. 

“Very well. Airachnid, be a dear and hand me the buzzsaw.”

Windblade saw the glint of a blade being handed to him, and knew that he was  _ very  _ serious.

“Get that thing  _ away _ -! No! Don’t you fragging-!” She pulled at her restraints in vain, tried to topple the chair over to get away from Tarantulas as he approached, his cage of legs closing in on her, trapping her in his shadow.

She didn’t quite know what happened next. She heard the shrill whine of the saw powering on, and felt the clasp at the back of her neck pull apart as the front of the razorsilk fell open. She couldn’t look down to see just how this garment was able to cause her so much pain, because without that pain to numb her she felt the cold of the blade and then the fire as it pierced and separated her protoform- 

As a warning filled her HUD, it then abruptly went dark. 

Shutdown. 

Reboot. 

Wake up.

Just a dream…?

No. She wasn’t that lucky.

When her body recovered, she couldn't see the diagnostic reports scrolling across her vision. Everything and anything was drowned out by an incredible blue light; one that she had only ever seen once fifty stellars ago, when she was first brought into her body. One that she hadn’t planned on seeing again until it was time to return to the Allspark. 

Somewhere very close by in that drowning light, Tarantulas let out a low whistle. “Now that is  _ very _ bright… almost a shame to put it to waste. Is he ready?”

“Ready and waiting,” Airachnid reported from somewhere very far away. Windblade’s spark diffused its glow, or maybe her optics were just finished adjusting to the glare. She didn’t want that. She preferred being blinded by her own light, if it meant not being here… not seeing here.

But she  _ was  _ here. She had dared to leave home, the safety of Caminus and the Mistress’ protection, and this was the price she had to pay. And the others… she couldn’t help them. She had doomed them all to this very same fate. 

She knew what that fate was, now. She knew why the machine before her had its name, if not exactly  _ how _ . This would be something far worse, far more horrifying than merely death.

Her spark would be cracked open. And it would never find the Allspark, or Primus. 

“We call it the Sparkcracker’s Kiss,” Tarantulas told her, coming into view once again like he was haunting her. “Romantic, isn’t it? Opposite polarities pulling each other together, against any and all resistance, releasing enough energy to rival the birth of a star. Of course, only one thing can interrupt a spark-bond. The death of one, or both, of the partners.”

She didn’t hear much of him, not when he started pulling her up and dragging her towards the machine- when had her restraints been released?! When she’d gone into reboot, too overwhelmed by the shock to do anything- now it was too late to run to freedom or to a better demise than this-

“No, NO! Get your fragging hands off me,  _ LET GO OF ME _ !” Windblade squirmed and thrashed away from Tarantulas’ grip, but the legs from his back simply took hold and forced her still as he brought her closer to the Sparkcracker, while he laughed at her screaming resistance. 

“Dearie me; a pretty girl like you, this surely can’t be your first time. Well, at least you’ll have the experience before everything ends.” He stopped and pulled her in front of him, like her spark was some sort of shield in front of his creature, then called out over his shoulder, “Airachnid, are you a safe distance away?”

“Of course, father,” she called back. 

“Then, without further ado…” Tarantulas shoved her hard in her spinal strut, right at the point where her paralysed wings joined, so that she stumbled forwards… and kept on moving. Something was pulling her closer to the Sparkcracker, no matter how hard she scraped her peds against the ground to try and stop herself- not even the weights on her wings were able to slow her down. Her very spark was being yanked forward like it was tethered to something; some sort of electromagnetic pull that was impossible to escape. Soon she would collide with the corpse-like mech, and… then what?

Opposite polarities… the ‘spark-bond’. They would be fused together. She could see it already. Her life would be leeched away by this thing as it tore at her spark, feeding its own with hers, gnawing at it with those clamps and jagged edges like his chamber was a ravenous maw and hers was prey to be devoured. Her spark would crack open, and everything would spill out. Not just her light; her memories, her personality, her knowledge and fears and loves and even her bond with Metroplex, they would all be taken by this thing for its masters to use in Caminus’ downfall.

The closer she came to the grotesque mech, the faster that invisible attraction pulled her to him, the force doubling and then quadrupling its efforts in crushing them together. She saw his own bonds straining now, the proximity to her spark making his skeletal frame almost fly off this mockery of a throne, and the sound of creaking bolts and clinking chains was enough to snap her out of her stupor. She was close, only a few meters away now. The friction slowing her descent was quickly overcome as she was pulled into the thrumming core of light, a once faint barely-there glow now growing into a cruel ember as it sensed her energy and sought to rob it all from her, even stealing the hum of her spark as it filled her audios and then her throat, manifesting there as a plea for mercy that simply would not come.

Proximity warning. Energon reserves dangerously low. Overheating, fans malfunctioning. Proximity warning. Her optics covered in those blaring messages, not a single one pointing out that her chamber was wide open, yet so many others that she couldn’t even see in front of her anymore, couldn’t see the point of impact, but when it came her HUD and her nodes and her naked spark screamed at her that everything was so, so wrong...

Her spark scraped the jaws of the Sparkcracker’s chest, cold and jarring against his own core, as it came to pull her in so deep that she would never come back out, ready to shut down on her very being-

The light. The pain. The screaming… the explosion. 

A squeal in her audios, high-pitched ringing. Was that her systems shutting down, the final warning signals firing in her processor? She didn’t dare open her optics to see what was happening to her, didn’t dare move to make the ordeal even longer or worse, lying there on the floor-

...the floor?

She opened her optics, and through a veil of smoke and steam she found herself looking at a pair of massive peds. Her chamber was closed, her chestplates clamped back to their rightful position, but she still heard her spark beating a terrified tempo all through her frame. There was something even louder than that, though. Growling. Grunting. Breathing that was like a gale wind being funneled through vents. 

She looked up, and saw the Sparkcracker standing over her.

He was ripping his servo free of the last bolt keeping it chained down to his chair. The rusted joints of his claws snapped as he closed them into his palms, crushing the air with his grip. Then, when his broken fingers were oiled enough by his own force, he reached up and tore off his blindfold, wrenching his helm to rid himself of it. It fluttered to the ground, landing in front of Windblade, and she saw that it was the same razorsilk she had been subjected to, faded and frayed with age but still embedded with slivers of sharp edges in the fibers.

If she looked up again, she would find his optics- assuming he had any. She didn’t want to see them, or any more of this thing that had been constructed to kill in such a barbaric way. And yet… she found them anyway. The razorsilk had left its mark on his face, leaving a thick scar across it where it had cut in deep. Above it, a single pair of red optics had flared to life, burning ever brighter with every nanoklick. 

He had closed his chamber, or it had closed itself, masking the horrible hydraulic machination built into his chest, and with a single talon he clawed at his mouth until he could rip open the soldered seam on his lips. Once the tear had started, he finished it by unhinging his jaw and unleashing a scream that shook the foundations of the entire council building, one that had been building up for Primus-knows how long. It swelled in Windblade’s audios until its upper tones were cut off into garbled static, yet even though she was right in front of the source she didn’t flinch. Not even when shards of solder and curdled energon flew out from his mouth did she turn away… because he didn’t even seem to know she was there. She wasn’t the target of his awakened fury, because he wasn’t looking down at her. He was looking far beyond, behind her; to the mech who had very likely did all this to him.

Windblade turned her helm only an inch, to see Tarantulas frozen like the statue that the Sparkcracker was supposed to be, not a single leg twitching or optic blinking. In a wonderful twist of fate, he was now the one who was horrified by his own creation.

“Aira...chn-nid,” he gulped, shouting over the snarls of the Sparkcracker, “g-get the guards in... NOW!” He barked to the femme who was standing further behind him, well within the shadow of the gallery above, and Windblade heard a furious grunt before a rush of wind over her shoulder that made her duck instinctively. Airachnid was already scurrying on eight legs towards the door, while Tarantulas left his paralysis just in time to cower out of the way of the throne that came hurtling towards him. It clanged and shattered into metal shards as it hit the ground, and Windblade covered her head as they fired all around the room. She felt the mist of oil and energon spurting out of loosened tubes, trying to roll away so that it wouldn’t cover her while still shielding her optics- but every move made her protoform sting. The fragging dress, still clinging to her legs by invisible hooks. Her hands bled as she tore the rest of it from her body, not caring that it left her naked so long as it was gone from her. Her wings were still bound tightly together, but at least she could run. 

But where was there to run to…? Her spark was out-of-control, a swelling supernova in her chest as she scanned the torture chamber for any chance of escape. There was the door that the witnesses were brought through to her left, or she could try climbing up to the judge platforms, or there was the door she was brought through to begin with right ahead of her...

Windblade looked forward to find the Sparkcracker standing there between her and the exit. Tarantulas and Airachnid were gone, likely through that very same door. He was facing her, looking at her, commanding her attention as his vents thundered with heaving breaths. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking, if he was thinking at all. She wanted to move, to get away from him and this whole place, but she could hardly keep her processor from melting out of her audios. She couldn’t move her arms or legs as they shivered, and she couldn’t speak through her ragged vocaliser. What else was there to do but stare back at him, and wonder what he would do next? If she would be his next target just because she was the only one left, or if he would leave her behind to chase after Tarantulas, or-

“Stand down, creature!” A flood of frames suddenly surrounded the Sparkcracker from the back of the court chamber, each of them issuing the same order. “Put your hands behind your head and lower yourself, or we will fire!”

Drones, the same kind that had arrested Windblade in Metroplex, each one armed with a pistol. This time they ignored her, only interested in detaining the Sparkcracker. But if she moved, she had no doubt they’d take her down in one hit. 

There was nothing she could do, then. The Sparkcracker himself looked puzzled, only slightly under that veneer of rage. But he looked to Windblade once again, and closed his optics for a long moment before slowly opening them again. Like he was trying to tell her something.

_ ‘He wants me to… close my optics?’  _ Windblade could only assume that was what it meant. Not being able to see would leave her even more defenseless, even more unprepared for whatever was to come. 

But if she couldn’t see it, she wouldn’t  _ know  _ what would come next. She wouldn’t need to be scared. She didn’t want to be scared anymore. She just wanted to go home. 

Darkness couldn't take her home… but it could take her away from here, just for a moment. 

“We will not ask again!” the drones ordered as she shut her optics. “Put your hands behind your head and-!”

The sound of peds falling started to surround her, and then that of metal thudding and crashing and fluids spilling across surfaces. The snap of gunfire and cries of fury, both rapidly cut short as she covered her audios and then her face with her hands. If he was losing, she didn’t want to know. If one of them was coming to finally kill her, she didn’t want to know either. 

And then, after a klick, it all stopped. But it wasn’t silence. As Windblade kept herself shielded from whatever had just happened, one more sound came to her. 

“Come with me.”

It was a voice she’d never heard before, and it sounded… Primus, it was like bubbling acid, corrosive and corroded. She peeked through her digits, seeing a clutch of rusted soiled claws being offered to her. Uncovering her face now, she saw the Sparkcracker leaning down towards her, so that he didn’t tower as he held out his hand. Up close, the signs of his torture were even more sickening to see; stark and gnarled even under the sheen of energon he was covered with that hadn’t been there before. If she looked away from him, she was sure she’d find a room full of dead drones. So she didn’t look away. Even if he was a gruesome and horrific sight, he was the closest thing she had to safety since she was first brought into this room. 

The Sparkcracker, the thing that was supposed to have shattered her, was now trying to save her as well as himself. He wasn’t leaving here until she either accepted him, or rejected him.

Why did Cityspeakers always have to rely on others to save them? 

“Come with me,” he asked again, and it must have been painful to even speak from how his soldered lips grimaced. Despite that, he still asked loud and clear. “If you can.”

...What else was she supposed to do? Staying put would just see her once again put in chains and silk and whatever other vile ways they had to detain their prisoners. Escaping by herself would only delay that result. This mech was the best chance she had at getting out alive.

He was still waiting for her answer, his wings hanging limp and likely useless, his broken frame heaving with the effort of still being alive after so much. And his optics, red pits of fire, looked like they were something born from Caminus himself.

She gulped, and took his hand. His palm engulfed her digits, and he wasted no time in pulling her away from the scene of the massacre. She lost her balance temporarily with her wings still tied up and weighed down, but the mech moved with enough speed to counteract it as he tore through a door hidden along the wall of podiums- how did he know it was there? Windblade could only wonder about that briefly with how quickly her escort moved.

As they burst into a dark hallway, the only illumination coming from their optics, Windblade found herself unable to stay silent any longer, yet also unable to say anything. “I… I-I, wha-?”

“Don’t talk,” the Sparkcracker told her in a snarl. “Just run.”

And so, with Primus knows how many bots hunting them down within that very building, they ran. She had no idea where they were going, where they even  _ could  _ go, but her executor-savior brought her through the depths of those secret corridors like he had built the place himself. It wasn’t like being dragged by Rattrap’s guards. His grip was firm and his pace unrelenting, but he didn’t force her to stumble along. With what was at stake, she wanted to keep up with him anyway; despite how her protoform still prickled with invisible needles and her spark buzzed from whatever contact it had with his own. Primus, she shouldn’t even have been alive after something like that, but… for better or worse, she was. And now she had a duty to stay alive.

“Stop at once! By order of Chancellor Rattrap-!” With her escort in front of her she couldn’t see who was trying to apprehend them, but the Sparkcracker had no time for them. He kept charging forwards, knocking the guard aside with enough force to break right through the wall. Windblade only saw a glimpse of the wreckage behind her before it left her sight and she was pulled around a corner-

They stopped, caught in front of a window extending far above them both. The scene outside was a tempest of pure white that immersed Windblade in cold writhing moonlight. She hadn’t even realised they’d been climbing up the building, but through that flurry of white she could see rooftops stretched out- too far away for either of them to reach without the help of their wings. The window was nothing but a dead end. 

And people were approaching, more guards than just the one who had failed to stop them. A dead end, for two people soon to be very dead. 

“What do we do…?” She turned to the mech, still gripping his hand as if that could do anything to help her. He didn’t see her, not at first. He was looking at the window as if it had no business being there, no right to be there in his way, like he was  _ insulted  _ by it. His solder scars quivered on his lips as he scowled, but the expression was gone when he faced her. He thrust out a servo, lunging over her shoulder towards her wings, and with a swipe of his talons he shredded at the binding around them. She only had a nanokick to feel them flutter, still numb from being forced still, before he grabbed her again. This time, he pulled her whole frame against his, holding her so close that she felt his spark once again. It was there, without a doubt, and it was no longer the feeble dying thing that had been set to drain her. This spark had life all of its own now, not needing any of hers, and with how much larger he was it almost drowned her out completely. 

“Shield yourself,” his caustic growl, shaking out from the pit of that renewed spark, told her. “And trust me.”

“Wha-?” Windblade’s confusion ended in a shriek as the Sparkcracker threw them both sideways, crashing through the window in a storm of glass and cold, cold white that surrounded them like a cyclone of ice as they plummeted to Cybertron’s depths. 

  
  


**End of Act I**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus concludes Act 1, with the final reveal of the titular character (who also has another name that I'm sure we all know already) and his daring escape with Windblade. Future acts will be published as separate works from this in order to make them easier to read through and more organised overall, but they'll still come under the series name of 'Sparkcracker Suite'.
> 
> If anyone has any questions about what's coming next or how Cybertron and Caminus work in this universe, I'd be happy to answer them in either the comments or through an ask on my writing tumblr. Thank you all who read this far, and I hope to see you sometime in the future when it's time for Act 2 :D


End file.
